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OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

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Khymes  from  the  Kangeland 

Under  the  Sunny  Blue  Skies  of  the  Western  Plains, 
Mountains  and  Foothills; 


OR 


Following  the  Long-Homed  Steer  on  the  Trail,  Over  the 
Range,  in  the  Stampede  and  the  Roundup. 


A  Book  of  Western  Verses 

Small  Edition 

By  WESLEY  BEGGS 

Or,  as  he  is  better  known  in  the  West:  The  Cowboy  Poet 

AUTHOR  OF 

"Away  Out  West  Behind  the  Bars,  or,  The  Shadows  of  the  Great  Stone  Corral 

at  Deer  Lodge,  Montana.* 
In  two  volumes;  each  one  complete  in  itself. 

BEAUTIFULLY  ILLUSTRATED 

Illustrations  by  Frank  L.  Philips 
Engravings  by  Cocks-Clark  Engraving  Co. 


1912 

The  Ea&wood-Kirchner  Printing  Company 
DENVER,  COLORADO 


Copyright,  1912,  by  Wesley  Beggs 
All  Rights  Reserved 


?s 


To  my  zvife  and  iny  children, 

To  the  Frontier  man, 
To  the  Pioneer  man,  to  the  Cowman 

and  Cowboys; 
To  all  who  have  traveled  the  great  Trails 

of  the  West,  and  the  South, 
Reaching  up  to  the  great  Range  Land; 

This  Book  is  Sincerely, 

Respectfully  and  Affectionately 

Dedicated  by  the  Author. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Explanation    g 

A  Talk  With   My  Readers    11 

Go  to  It,  Old  Bronk,  I  Have  Called  You 19 

The  Merry  Old  Roundup  Gives  the  Best  Exhibitions  of  All 21 

Twenty   Years   Ago    23 

Oh !  Those  Days  in  North  Dakota   27 

The  Bucking  Broncho   33 

The  Cowboy's  Last  Ride    35 

The   Cow    Girl    37 

A  Talk  With  an  Old  Friend   38 

Leaving  Deer  Lodge  Prison    40 

A  Stampede  in  Texas  44 

The  Work  of  a  Bad  Cowboy  46 

The  Work  of  a  Good  Cowboy  46 

Go  Chum  With  the  Geysers  Awhile   47 

To  My  Indian  Friends    50 

When  Your  Hull  Begins  to  Roll   51 

They  Sent  Me  Right  Over  the  Road  52 

A  Hunk  of  That  Old  Pumpkin   Pie   57 

In   the    Bad-Lands    59 

He  Was  Going   Some  for  a  Preacher 60 

Hurrah   for  Old   Montana    62 

Lines    to  a    Prisoner    65 

A  Lonely  Grave  Out  West   66 

Verses  to  the  Warden  of  Prison 67 

That  Old   Sheepherder  Man    68 

In  Jail  at  Big  Timber,  Montana   7° 

To  Ride  Away  Out  West   (Song)    72 

The  Gems  of  Old   Montana    76 

The  Indian   Story  of  Custer's   Last   Battle 77 

We  Have  Them  All  at  Deer  Lodge   81 

The  Lone  Cabin  on  Bridger  Creek   84 

When  the  Bronk  Begins  to  Bawl   85 

How  Are  You  Fixed  for  Straw  ?   87 

The  Old  Slop  Mule  at  Deer  Lodge  90 

Malugian  at  Great  Falls,  Goes  to  the  Circus 93 

On   Mt.    Powell,  Montana    97 

The  Boys  at  Billings   98 


vi. 

PAGE 

Farewell,  Titanic,  Proud  Ship  of  the  Sea   100 

The  Knot  That  Hands   Have  Tied    101 

The  Old   Stockade  Corral    i°2 

In  Those  Old  Roundup  Da'ys   ( Song)    105 

Down  at  the  Alamo    ( Song)    108 

The  Cowboy's  Song  to  His  Herd  no 

The   Rustler  Gets  the  Blame       m 

Getting  My  Old  Calf  Pants  Washed   -.112 

Early  Days  of  the  Cherokee  Strip   I!3 

Stolen    Shoe    Strings    1 16 

Naming  the  Baby    121 

Tar  Daubers  of  Shady  Bend    124 

A   Stampede   in    North   Dakota    *25 

When  Lillie  Roundup  Throws  Her  Rope   129 

Montana,  the  Gem  of  the  West   132 

Drifting   Around    135 

The  Wife  That  I  Loved  So  Well   (Song)    ..136 

A  Happy  Home    I4I 

Darkies   Leaving  Oklahoma    ( Song)    144 

That  Bronk  Will  Throw  His  Rider  Away  out  in  Beulah   Land 

(Song)     146 

The  Land  That  I  Love   (Song)    148 

Home  on  the   Rangeland    151 

The  Locoed  Sheep   ( Song)    152 

The   Cowboy's   Last   Retreat    153 

Farewell  to   Montana,   the  Gem  of  the   West 156 

Oklahoma,  Meaning  Beautiful  Land    (Song)    158 

Flanigan's    Pancake    160 

Give  Me  the  Woman  Who  Loves  the  Fresh  Air 162 

On  the  Bellefouche  Far  Away  164 

When  Lovina  Was  My  Sweetheart  So  Many  Years  Ago  (Song).  167 

Leaving  the   Old   Farm   for   the   City 170 

The  Horrors  of  a  Prison   Cell    174 

Just  To  Be  a  Rancher's  Wife 178 

Far  From  My  Happy  Home  (Song) 180 

To   the   Cranky   Freight  Agent    183 

Farewell  to  My  Saddle  and  Rope 185 

The  Morning  Glory  Hills   188 

To  the  Public   191 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Frontispiece — The  Author  Facing  Title  Page 

"I'll  ride  you,  old  bronk,  to  your  death" 20 

"And  I'll  ride  your  bronk  for  dough" 34 

"When  the  steer's  a  flying  circus" 50 

"A  mother's  son  is  sleeping  here"  66 

Bridger  Creek  Falls 76 

The  Old  Stockade  Corral  102 

"My  eyes  have  viewed  the  roundup  camp" 107 

"And  they  ran  for  nearly  forty  miles  through  country  rough 

and  strange"  126 

"And  some  girl  will  find  a  landing  when  the  bronk  begins  to 

bawl"  146 

The  Old  Stockade  Ranch  Buildings  156 

The  Cowboy  168 

Rock  House  on  Bridger  188 


AUTHOR'S  PREFACE 

OR 
EXPLANATION. 


I  do  not  suppose  anyone  has  ever  written  a  book 
without  first  having  reasons  for  so  doing. 

So  I  have  reasons  why  this  one  should  make  its  ap 
pearance.  I  do  not  claim  but  little  merit  for  these  poems. 
Consequently,  I  have  no  apologies  to  make  to  the  public. 
I  will  say  very  few  of  them  have  ever  been  published. 
Quite  a  number  have  been  written  and  handed  around 
among  the  boys. 

Now,  I  leave  out  many  of  the  Cowboy  phrases,  or 
slang  words,  believing  the  book  will  be  better  and  a  more 
useful  book  without  them. 

There's  verses  here  that's  brimming  full, 

And  some  that's  not  so  flush; 
But  not  a  word  to  cause  your  cheeks 

To  mantle  with  a  blush. 


A  TALK  WITH  MY  READERS 


I  have  often  picked  up  a  book  with  no  illustrations 
and  no  pictures  of  the  author,  and  I  have  thought  how 
much  better  and  interesting  it  would  have  been  with  a 
few  illustrations  and  a  correct  picture  of  the  author. 

When  we  read  of  a  person  we  would  like  to  know 
how  they  look.  Whether  tall  or  short,  and  where  they 
were  born  and  under  what  conditions  and  surroundings 
they  grew  up  to  manhood  or  womanhood.  So,  in  giving 
this  book  to  the  world  you  will  find  quite  a  number  of 
illustrations;  also  a  correct  picture  of  the  author.  They 
will  enable  you  to  know  me  better  and  to  get  better  ac 
quainted  with  me.  Also  the  conditions  under  which 
these  pieces  were  written.  I  was  born  in  Franklin 
County,  Ohio,  twelve  miles  from  the  city  of  Columbus, 
the  capital  of  the  state. 

My  father  was  from  the  north  of  Ireland,  born  in 
Bally  Carry,  County  of  Antrim.  My  mother  was  of 
Irish  descent,  born  in  Guernsey  County,  Ohio.  My  pa 
rents  came  to  that  part  of  the  state  in  an  early  day.  They 
were  pioneers  when  Ohio  was,  or  at  least  that  part  of 
the  state  was,  a  vast  wilderness,  nothing  but  timber  and 
water.  My  parents  tried  to  raise  their  children,  or  fam 
ily,  well,  which  consisted  of  four  children,  two  girls  and 
two  boys,  I  being  the  oldest  boy.  My  parents  were  good 
and  kind  to  their  children.  Mother  was  a  very  tender 
hearted,  compassionate,  sympathetic  woman.  They  had 
come  to  that  part  of  Ohio  in  an  early  day  and  had  strug 
gled  with  poverty  and  hardships  such  as  is  common  to 
a  new  country.  It  was  here,  in  a  little  log  cabin  with  a 
great  big  fireplace,  I  was  born.  My  earliest  recollections 


are  a  few  apple  trees  growing  near  the  house  and  a  corn 
field,  which  came  up  near  the  cabin,  and  a  little  patch  of 
clover  where  the  pigs  and  calves  and  the  colts  were  kept. 

When  I  was  small,  a  mere  child,  I  had  a  severe  at 
tack  of  fever  and  it  settled  in  my  heart  and  left  it  in  a 
bad  condition.  And  when  I  grew  large  enough  to  work 
it  soon  began  to  trouble  me  considerable.  Father  took 
me  to  old  Dr.  Waggenhalls,  one  of  the  best  physicians 
in  the  city  of  Columbus,  and  upon  making  an  examina 
tion  of  my  heart  found  it  in  a  bad  condition.  He  told 
father  he  thought  he  could  help  me  some,  but  could  not 
cure  me,  as  I  was  incurable.  This  was  very  sad  news 
to  father,  as  I  was  the  oldest  boy  and  he  had  hoped  t 
would  be  a  great  help  to  him.  He  wished  that  it  might 
not  be  true  and  he  sincerely  hoped  it  was  not.  So,  to 
satisfy  himself,  he  took  me  to  another  eminent  physician 
in  the  city.  But  he  said  the  same  as  the  other  one  did. 
Dr.  Waggenhalls  gave  me  medicine  enough  to  last  a 
couple  of  weeks  and  at  the  end  of  that  time  I  was  to 
see  him  again.  This  time  my  mother  went  with  me. 
After  some  little  time  the  doctor  said  the  medicine  had 
done  all  he  expected  it  to  do.  Then  mother  said  :  "Doc 
tor,  can  you  cure  my  boy?"  He  answered  her,  "I  can 
not,  he  is  incurable,  though  he  may  live  to  be  quite  old 
by  taking  good  care  of  himself."  This  was  too  much 
for  mother  to  hear — she  wept  bitterly.  The  doctor  said : 
"Your  boy  must  live  an  out-of-door  life.  It  is  no  use 
to  send  him  to  school,  an  education  will  do  him  no  good, 
confinement  in  a  schoolroom  or  any  other  room,  will  only 
kill  him.  An  open  air  life,  feeding  or  caring  for  stock, 
is  the  best  thing  he  can  do." 

Now,  I  want  to  say  if  all  the  doctors  in  the  world 
were  as  honest  as  old  Dr.  Waggenhalls  I  would  have 


more  faith  in  doctors  than  I  have.  However,  I  took  the 
doctor's  medicine  for  one  year  and  was  not  allowed  to 
take  any  violent  exercise  or  do  any  hard  work,  and  as  I 
grew  to  he  bigger  and  stronger  my  heart  did  not  bother 
me  so  much.  But  I  never  went  to  school  but  little,  and 
my  education  in  the  schoolroom  amounts  to  almost  noth 
ing,  though  I  did  go  to  school  some,  as  I  will  tell  you 
by  and  by  what  a  hard  whipping  I  got.  When  I  got  to 
be  about  fifteen  years  old  I  was  helping  to  build  fence, 
making  rails,  swinging  the  cradle  in  the  harvest  fields 
Also  the  old-fashioned  reap  hook  or  sickle.  One  season 
father,  brother  and  I  reaped  eleven  days,  our  wheat  was 
blown  down  flat  to  the  ground.  But  in  this  way  we 
were  able  to  save  it  all.  I  had  learned  that  to  the  west 
of  us  lay  the  great  plains  of  the  Western  world  and  the 
rocky-ribbed  old  mountains  loomed  up  in  all  their  grand 
eur  and  greatness,  and  I  longed  to  g"o  and  see  them. 
I  thought  of  the  West,  I  dreamed  of  the  West,  and  often 
imagined  how  beautiful  the  great  plains  must  be  and 
what  a  contrast  from  the  heavy  timbered  country.  All 
I  then  knew  of  the  world  was  around  my  childhood 
home  and  I  thought  that  it  was  grand.  I  would  look 
at  the  glistening  stars  and  wonder  if  they  looked  the 
same  in  the  Far  West  as  they  did  there.  I  have  often 
stood  at  the  gate  in  front  of  the  house  when  the  golden 
sun  was  beginning  to  sink  behind  the  Western  hills  and 
wondered  if  I  would  ever  see  the  great  plains  and  the 
mighty  mountains  that  were  far  to  the  west  of  us.  So 
you  see  I  am  a  Western  man,  and  now  for  nearly  twenty- 
seven  years  I  have  been  from  that  land  that  gave  me 
birth.  But  today  as  I  sit  penning  these  words  there 
comes  to  me  a  longing  to  return  and  look  once  more 
upon  the  scenes  of  my  childhood  and  again  return  to 
the  land  I  love,  the  great  West.  As  I  think  of  home, 
father,  mother,  brother  and  sisters,  and  the  old  orchard 
and  the  meadow,  and  the  sunny  days  of  childhood,  tears 
start  from  my  eyes  unbidden.  And  I  long  to  look  upon 
the  old  spot  where  I  first  saw  and  knew  mother  and 
home.  But  alas !  I  would  not  find  them  there.  Father 


and  mother  sleep  in  mother  earth.  The  old  cabin  has 
rotted  down  and  I  suppose  not  a  particle  of  it  remains 
today.  The  old  lane  where  I  used  to  drive  the  cows  to 
and  from  the  pasture  has  been  changed,  the  old  rail 
fence  has  been  replaced  by  a  wire  fence.  And  I  suppose 
I  would  not  know  the  old  place  at  all  nor  anyone  living 
in  the  neighborhood.  The  schoolmates  have  all  grown 
up  and  scattered  all  over  the  world.  Many  of  them 
have  -been  called  to  that  bourne  from  whence  no  traveler 
ever  returns.  But  such  is  the  generation  of  flesh  and 
blood,  one  cometh  to  an  end  and  another  is  born.  But 
to  return  to  my  story,  I  wanted  to  go  West,  but  how 
could  I  leave  my  mother.  I  always  loved  her.  But 
finally  the  time  came  for  me  to  start  to  that  land  I 
thought  so  much  about. 

It  was  in  1878  or  1879  I  left  Columbus,  Ohio,  for 
Leadville,  Colorado,  and  while  waiting  for  the  train  I 
met  a  friend  who  asked  me  where  I  was  going.  I  told 
him  to  Leadville,  Colorado,  and  he  said:  "You  will 
make  just  a  nice  pot  of  soup  for  the  Indians  around 
Leadville  who  are  on  the  warpath."  But  I  was  not  the 
kind  to  be  so  easily  turned  back  or  defeated  in  my  trip. 
I  bought  my  ticket  and  boarded  the  train  that  was  to 
carry  me  westward  with  a  light  and  a  happy  heart.  As 
she  steamed  away  from  the  Union  depot  I  took  a  long 
farewell  to  my  native  city  and  land,  and  as  we  pushed 
on  westward  through  dense  timber  and  over  vast  plains 
toward  the  old  Rockies  the  scenery  was  immense  and 
grand  and  beautiful.  When  we  came  to  the  great  plains 
of  Kansas  what  a  sight  greeted  my  eyes.  Often  I  had 
pictured  them  beautiful,  but  my  imagination  was  not 
strong  enough  to  do  them  justice.  Here  was  a  prairie 
fire  sweeping  over  the  great  plains  and  the  sky  was  lit 
up  by  the  light  until  it  seemed  that  the  horizon  was 
bright  with  the  morning  sunrise,  and  I  thought  the 
spectacle  was  grand.  I  was  now  far  from  home,  but  I 
thought  tenderly  of  the  ones  that  I  left  behind.  In  one 
of  my  quiet  solitudes  I  wrote  the  song  that  begins  with 
this  verse: 


XV. 


I  left  my  home  a  wandering  lad 

And  bound  to  see  the  world, 
While  father  said,  "Oh,  Tommy,  dear, 

Your  wandering  flag  unfurled; 
You  have  a  father,  good  and  kind, 

A  mother  old  and  gray, 
Her  heart  will  break  for  you,  my  boy, 

When  you  are  far  away." 

I  dearly  love  the  West,  every  part  of  it  is  dear  to 
my  heart.  In  many  of  the  Western  states  I  have  slept 
on  my  blankets  beneath  the  wide-spreading  roof  of  the 
heavens  while  the  queenly  moon  in  her  brightness  sailed 
up  and  up,  higher  into  the  beautiful,  clear,  moonlit  sky, 
made  so  beautiful  by  her  presence.  Then  the  stars  look 
ing  down  from  the  arches  above,  like  so  many  little 
golden  lamps,  impressed  me  with  a  desire  to  know  more 
of  these  far-away  suns  ever  twinkling  and  glowing  like 
the  bright  eyes  of  seraphs  looking  down  on  us  poor  finite 
mortals  below.  Often  I  have  heard  the  voice  of  a  bird 
singing  a  few  notes  in  the  moonlight  on  the  lone  prairie. 
And  when  I  camped  on  a  creek  where  there  was  timber 
I  could  hear  the  soft  whispering  as  if  the  trees  were  hold 
ing  communion  together.  Oh,  there  is  a  beautiful  sweet 
ness  in  a  night  slumber  under  such  conditions  and  when 
awake  you  lay  in  your  blankets  meditating  as  in  the  de 
lusion  of  a  pleasant  dream.  And  you  are  apt  to  think 
all  these  noises  that  are  abroad  and  heard  everywhere  in 
the  air  are  the  voices  of  angels  chanting  their  songs  to 
charm  the  ear  of  the  sleeper  who  sleeps  away  out  West, 
beneath  the  beautiful  blue  sky  and  the  bright  sparkling 
stars.  Nature  no  sooner  puts  one  set  of  children  to  sleep 
until  another  set  comes  on  the  stage  of  activity,  as  busy 
and  as  happy  as  the  others.  This  great  and  wide  West 
has  charms  for  me  which  I  have  never  found  anywhere 
else.  And  I  presume  it  is  so  with  many  others.  Not 
long  ago  I  read  a  Western  story  of  a  Western  man  and 
I  think  it  would  be  well  for  me  to  relate  it  in  connection 
with  my  Western  experience.  This  man  left  his  East- 


xvi. 

ern  home  many  years  ago  to  wend  his  way  to  the  great 
Rocky  Mountains ;  gold  had  not  yet  been  discovered. 
The  great  railroads  had  not  yet  pushed  their  way  across 
the  great  plains.  The  greed  of  the  white  man  had  not 
yet  made  the  trail  over  the  mountains  a  very  familiar 
one.  Traveling  was  attended  with  more  or  less  danger 
in  those  days.  This  man  and  his  partner  who  was  trav 
eling  with  him  were  camped  on  the  flat  of  a  little  stream 
which  at  that  time  had  considerable  timber  on  it.  And 
about  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  and  much  to  their 
surprise,  they  were  visited  by  an  old  trapper  and  hunter 
who  in  his  wanderings  discovered  the  smoke  of  their 
campfire.  He  was  a  weather-beaten  iron  man  of  the 
solitudes  of  nature,  who  had  wandered  away  from  his 
home  in  the  Far  East  from  civilization  into  that  vast 
w'ilderness  of  desolation. 

After  talking  and  asking  a  few  questions  about  the 
East  he  shouldered  his  gun  and  started  across  the  plains 
toward  a  belt  of  timber  lying  dim  and  shadowy  like  a 
low  cloud  upon  the  distant  horizon. 

These  men  who  were  camped  on  the  little  stream 
watched  him  for  an  hour  or  more  as  he  trudged  away 
over  the  rolling  plains,  growing  less  and  less  to  the  view, 
until  he  became  like  a  speck  in  the  distance  and  finally 
vanished  from  sight  altogether.  These  men  said  there 
was  a  sort  of  solitude  or  solemn  feeling  stole  over  them 
as  this  lonely  hunter  wended  his  way  back  into  the  deep 
solitudes  of  the  prairie  to  be  alone  with  nature,  com 
muning  only  with  himself  and  the  things  that  were  scat 
tered  around  him  by  the  great  Creator.  Yet  he  seemed 
contented  and  happy.  There  is  something  in  some  men 
which  drives  them  from  society,  to  seek  the  treeless 
plains  and  the  deep  solitudes  of  the  wilderness  and  moun 
tains.  The  love  of  nature  and  the  love  of  new  adven 
tures  a\vay  from  the  haunts  of  civilization  and  settle 
ments  spur  them  on.  It  is  in  them,  they  love  it  and  it 
must  come  out,  and  away  to  the  wilds  they  go  to  live 
a  life  of  isolation  and  quiet  solitude.  This  is  the  old 
original  instinct  of  man — you  may  educate  him,  polish 


xvii. 

him,  clothe  him  in  purple  and  fine  linen,  but  still  he  will 
go  off  to  the  woods,  the  wilderness,  and  commune  with 
new  things.  They  cannot  be  contented  to  stay  in  one 
place,  away  back  where  people  are  thickly  settled,  but 
must  push  on  westward  to  the  frontier  amid  new  scenes, 
new  adventures  and  new  dangers.  This  nas  been  my 
weak  point.  If  I  should  call  it  so,  my  love  for  life 
amidst  the  solitudes  of  the  wilderness  or  mountains,  be 
yond  the  border  of  civilization,  has  been  overpowering, 
these  many  years  have  found  me  with  a  home  on  the 
border. 

So  I  have  spent  all  my  life  in  the  Far  West,  as  a 
hunter,  a  trapper  and  a  cowboy.  I  have  been  in  nearly 
all  the  Western  states  and  territories  from  Ohio  and 
Kentucky  on  the  East  to  the  Sierra  Nevadas  and  Cas 
cades  on  the  West ;  from  the  sunlit  Savannahs  of  Texas 
to  the  British  line  on  the  North ;  in  Indian  camps,  buffalo 
camps,  mining  camps  and  cow  camps.  Now  you  will 
be  better  acquainted  with  me  and  understand  me  better 
as  you  travel  with  me.  You  will  notice  the  pieces  to 
ward  the  close  of  the  book  are  of  a  more  serious  or 
thoughtful  nature.  This  is  because  of  the  change  which 
has  taken  place  in  me.  By  the  experiences  which  I  had 
passed  through.  From  the  cow  range  to  the  county  jail ; 
from  the  jail  to  the  penitentiary  at  Deer  Lodge,  Mon 
tana,  where  I  served  a  sentence  of  five  years.  I  will 
tell  you  all  about  this  in  my  other  book,  entitled,  "Away 
Out  West  Behind  the  Bars — or  the  Shadows — of  the 
Great  Stone  Corral  at  Deer  Lodge,  Montana." 

I  think  you  will  find  it  in  many  ways  a  better  book 
than  this  one.  In  it  are  my  best  pieces  of  poetry.  Some 
of  them  touching  and  tender.  I  will  tell  you  about  the 
shadows  of  prison  life  in  the  Great  Stone  Corral  at  Deer 
Lodge ;  of  the  men  in  stripes ;  what  kind  of  men  that 
fill  our  jails,  our  prisons  and  our  penitentiaries.  I  will 
tell  you  what  I  think  of  the  divorce  evil.  And  last,  but 
not  least,  I  tell  you  how  you  may  always  escape  the 
prison  cell.  Both  prose  and  poetry.  Some  written  in 
camp,  some  in  the  cell. 


However,  there  are  a  good  number  of  these  which 
were  written  in  prison.  And  many  of  these  other  pieces 
were  written  on  the  rangeland  or  in  camp  on  the  border. 

Here  you'll  find  a  few  verses 

That  were  wrote  on  the  trail. 
They  grew  in  the  sunshine, 

They  were  fanned  by  the  gale. 
Get  them  and  read  them, 

And  sing  them  if  best 
To  the  tune  of  the  saddle 

And  the  rhyme  of  the  West. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


Go  to  It,  Old  Bronk,  I've  Called  You. 


Go  to  it,  old  Bronk,  I  have  called  you ! 

Let  the  buttons  roll  off  from  my  vest, 
For  I'm  here  on  the  woolly  old  rangeland 

To  ride  the  wild  bronk  from  the  West. 
They  say  the  wild  Cowboy  is  passing, 

But  he  lingers  still  here  on  the  Plains; 
He  still  wears  the  schapps  and  the  Stetson, 

And  he  still  holds  the  old  bridle  reins. 

He  still  loves  his  old  occupation, 

And  he  has  no  desire  for  a  change; 
He  still  loves  the  old  chuck  wagon 

And  follows  it  over  the  range. 
Then,  go  to  it,  old  Kid,  I  am  to  you, 

Let  me  have  just  a  moment  for  breath, 
Till  I  get  both  my  feet  in  the  stirrups, 

And  I'll  ride  you,  old  bronk,  to  your  death. 

He  still  rides  the  grassy  old  rangeland, 

And  I'm  sure  it  is  no  narrow  scope, 
And  he  still  loves  to  bunch  up  the  doggies 

And  show  his  great  skill  with  the  rope. 
So,  go  to  it,  old  bronk,  I  am;  with  you, 

Though  the  water  gush  out  of  my  eyes; 
You  will  find  I  am  still  on  the  voyage 

When  you  reach  the  gateway  of  the  skies. 

They  say  the  wild  Cowboy  is  passing, 

But  I  trust  it  is  only  a  dream. 
I  know  that  the  world's  a  delusion 

And  things  are  not  just  as  they  seem. 
But  go  to  it,  old  bronk,  I  am  with  you, 

Though  the  buttons  roll  off  of  my  pants; 
I  will  ride  you  today  and  tomorrow, 

And  ride  you  at  every  odd  chance. 


20  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

They  say  the  wild  Cowboy  is  passing, 

But  I  seen  one  not  two  weeks  ago. 
He  was  there  with  both  feet  in  the  stirrups 

And  his  pockets  well  filled  with  the  dough. 
Go  to  it,  old  bronky,  I'll  answer, 

Though  the  buttons  roll  off  of  my  vest, 
For  I'm  here  on  the  woolly  old  rangeland 

To  ride  the  wild  bronk  of  the  West. 

They  say  there's  no  more  pitching  horses, 

And  this  is  the  way  they  decide. 
But  I  know  an  outlaw  out  yonder 

Who  will  give  them  a  high  crooked  ride. 
They  will  need  both  their  feet  in  the  stirrups, 

And  then  a  through  ticket  to  town ; 
For  as  sure  as  you  are  a-living 

That  young  farmer  gent  will  come  down. 

The  Cowboys  are  still  thick  and  plenty, 

And  are  monarchs  of  all  they  survey; 
They  are  still  on  the  range  of  the  cattle, 

And  here  they  are  going  to  stay. 
Then  shut  up  on  this  wild  speculation 

And  give  us  a  moment  for  rest, 
And  we'll  show  you  we're  in  from  the  rangeland 

To  ride  the  wild  bronks  from  the  West. 

The  dry  farmers  are  all  looking  skeery, 

And  some  of  them  look  pretty  sick ; 
You  know  they  are  all  looking  hungry, 

And  of  course  will  go  out  pretty  quick. 
Then  around  the  abandoned  old  homestead 

The  Cowboys  quite  often  will  meet, 
And  enjoy  a  good  time  in  their  parlor 

From  the  hot  burning  winds  and  the  heat. 

No,  I  don't  guess  the  wild  Cowboy  is  passing, 
He  still  lingers  here  on  the  plains; 


"/'//  Ride   You,  Old  Hronk,  to    Your  Death. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  21 

He  still  wears  the  schapps  and  the  Stetson, 
And  he  still  holds  the  old  bridle  reins. 

Then  go  to  it,  old  bronk,  I  have  called  you, 
Though  the  buttons  drop  off  of  my  vest, 

I  am  here  on  the  woolly  old  rangeland 
To  ride  the  wild  bronk  of  the  West. 


The  Merry  Old  Round-Up  Gives  the  Best 
Exhibition  of  All. 


Great  exhibitions  on  the  rangeland, 

In  the  spring,  the  summer  and  fall, 
But  the  ones  on  the  merry  old  round-up 

Are  the  best  exhibitions  of  all. 
See  them  go  high,  and  go  crooked ! 

See  them  sidestep,  and  sunfish,  and  fall! 
Ah !  Yes,  the  merry  old  round-up 

Gives  the  best  exhibitions  of  all. 

See  the  wrangler  come  in  with  the  bronchos, 

Such  beautiful,  swift- footed  beasts; 
Men  have  traveled  a  distance  to  see  them — 

They  have  come  all  the  way  from  the  East. 
And  they  all,  from  the  least  to  the  greatest, 

With  their  stock  of  unlimited  gall, 
Have  declared  that  the  merry  old  round-up 

Gives  the  best  exhibitions  of  all. 

They  may  show  you  the  sights  of  the  city, 
And  take  you  along-  down  the  row; 

You  may  pass  through  the  door  of  the  opera, 
And  may  pass  through  the  door  of  the  show. 

But  follow  the  merry  old  round-up 

Through  the  cold  frosty  mornings  of  fall. 


22  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

And  you'll  find  that  the  bronk  and  the  Cowboy 
Gives  the  best  exhibitions  of  all. 

The  Wild  West  Show  isn't  in  it, 

To  me  they  are  sorry  and  tame; 
But  here  on  the  woolly  old  rangeland 

We  have  them  nerved  up  for  the  game. 
Then  see  them  go  high,  and  go  crooked, 

Hear  the  groan,  the  moan  and  the  bawl. 
Ah!  Yes,  the  merry  old  round-up 

Gives  the  best  exhibitions  of  all. 

Hear  the  echoing  call  of  the  Cowgirl, 

As  her  wild  broncho  pierces  the  wind; 
See  her  off  in  the  race  with  the  others — 

It's  a  cinch  she  has  no\v  got  them  skinned. 
See  them  off  for  the  old  chuck  wagon, 

Hear  the  roar,  the  yip  and  the  call ; 
I  tell  you  the  merry  old  round-up 

Gives  the  best  exhibitions  of  all. 

See  them  gather  around  the  chuck  wagon 

And  exhibit  the  skill  of  their  luck; 
For  the  cook  has  a  feast,  great  and  plenty, 

To  grace  a  good  Cowpuncher's  pluck. 
You  will  find  them  all  brave,  noble  fellows, 

With  a  stock  of  unlimited  gall, 
Which  gives  to  the  merry  old  round-up 

The  best  exhibitions  of  all. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  23 


Twenty  Years  Ago. 

I  took  a  ride  today,  old  Parcl, 

Where  I  rode  years  ago ; 
I  gazed  upon  the  landscape  there, 

When  it  lay  deep  with  snow. 
I  want  to  say  there's  been  a  change, 

The  feed  was  once  immense ; 
From  here  each  way  a  hundred  miles 

You  could  not  find  a  fence. 

Some  twenty  years  ago,  old  Pard, 

The  land  was  full  of  game ; 
Many  of  them  not  very  wild, 

And  some  were  really  tame. 
The  deer,  the  elk,  the  antelope, 

Together  there  did  roam ; 
It  truly  was  a  Paradise, 

And  it  their  native  home. 

Some  twenty  years  ago,  old  Pard, 

The  grass  stood  waving  high ; 
But  go  and  look  at  it  today, 

If  it  don't  make  you  cry. 
The  rotten  sheep  has  eaten  it 

As  bare  as  my  old  boots, 
And  still  they  have  them  there  today 

A-eating  out  the  roots. 

The  long-horned  steer  is  gone,  old  Pard, 

But  very  few  remain ; 
They  crowded  in  their  stinking  sheep 

And  drove  them  off  the  range. 
If  I  had  a  thousand  bronks,  old  Pard, 

I  know  I  couldn't  sleep 
Until  I  would  stampede  them 

Right  through  a  band  of  sheep. 

And  then  I'd  keep  them  going, 
I  would  never  let  them  stop. 


24  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

Till  every  sheep  was  under 

And  the  bronchos  were  on  top. 

J  would  run  them  up  the  valley 

And  would  chase  them  from  the  hills, 

And  despoil  the  old  range  robbers 
Till  every  one  was  still. 

The  owners,  too,  you  know,  old  Pard, 

I  would  give  a  chance  to  sail 
At  the  end  of  a  strong  old  picket  line 

Tied  to  a  broncho's  tail. 
And  when  I'd  freed  the  range  of  them, 

Then  I  would  strut  and  crow, 
And  the  grass  would  grow,  I  know  again, 

As  twenty  years  ago. 

These  herders  with  their  sheep,  old  Pard, 

And  low  depicted  mien, 
Have  eaten  off  every  blade  of  grass 

And  every  weed  between. 
Not  long  will  they  keep  herding  sheep 

Upon  these  Western  plains, 
Until  the  reach  their  home  corral, 

The  asylum  for  insane. 

The  Sheepman  and  the  Cattleman 

Have  had  a  dreadful  muss, 
But  the  sheep  have  got  the  range,  old  Pard, 

So  it  ain't  no  use  to  fuss. 
,Go  round  them  sheep  and  bring  them  in, 

The  range  is  dry  and  bare, 
You  know,  old  Pard,  I  hate  to  see 

Those  robbers  starving  there. 

The  noble  Red  Man,  too,  old  Pard, 

They  drove  him  far  away, 
And  still  they  keep  on  driving  him 

A  little  more  each  day. 
They  took  away  their  hunting  grounds, 

Where  the  buffalo  loved  to  roam, 
And  drove  them  to  another  place 

Not  fit  for  the  Red  Man's  home. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  25 

The  white  man  did  it  all,  old  Pard, 

On  him  I  lay  the  wrong- 
In  forcing  the  Red  Man's  heritage 

To  sing  the  white  man's  song. 
They  cheated  and  deluded  them, 

To  this  you  say  "ahem," 
But  the  devil  he  will  deal  with  you 

As  you  have  dealt  with  them. 

Not  very  far  from  here,  old  Pard, 

The  Indian  Nation  lie. 
All  decked  with  lovely  foliage 

Beneath  a  sunlit  sky. 
And  there  among  the  sun-kissed  hills 

The  Indians  are  corraled. 
Caught  in  the  white  man's  round-up 

And  drove  to  a  fare-you-well. 

Everything  we  see  around 

The  white  man's  hands  have  made; 
They  have  mutilated  Nature, 

And  you  know  they  have,  old  Pard. 
They  have  gathered  in  the  mountains, 

And  have  fenced  the  rivers,  too; 
They  slaughtered  all  our  buffalo, 

And  well  you  know  it's  true. 

The  railroads  spoiled  our  hunting  grounds 

And  split  them  wide  in  two ; 
The  buffalo,  deer  and  antelope 

From  it  then  quickly  flew. 
Then  came  the  pale-faced  hunter 

As  hard  as  he  could  ride, 
And  slaughtered  them  by  thousands 

Just  for  their  horns  and  hide. 

A  few  old  rotten  bones,  old  Pard, 

Is  all  that  now  remains 
Of  that  vast  herd  of  buffalo 

That  covered  all  our  plains. 


26  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RAN  GEL  AND 

It  really  makes  me  sad,  old  Pard, 

To  think  it  must  be  so, 
That  the  Red  Man  and  the  buffalo 

Must  both  together  go. 

I  have  seen  the  fairest  valleys 

Spoiled  by  the  white  man's  hands, 
And  Nature  was  mutilated 

Till  it  wasn't  very  grand. 
One  would  start  to  plowing, 

And  another  digging  a  well, 
And  one  a-building  a  cabin, 

And  in  it  all  would  dwell. 

They  would  put  a  fence  around  it, 

Fence  half  the  road  at  that, 
And  in  their  old  sod  shanty 

Would  live  as  poor  as  bats. 
The  one  cow  on  a  picket  line, 

Their  horses  on  a  rope, 
And  soon  they'd  be  too  thin  and  poor 

To  really  make  good  soap. 

No  more  the  scouts  upon  the  plains 

Old  Sitting  Bull  will  spy; 
No  more  his  canvas  tepee 

Will  light  the  evening  sky. 
No  more  the  Western  rovers 

His  wrinkled  face  shall  see, 
For  the  great  Sioux  Chief,  you  know, 

Was  killed  at  Wounded  Knee. 

Gone  are  the  elk  and  antelope. 

Now  very  few  remain ; 
Gone  are  the  savage  Red  Men 

From  off  the  Western  plain. 
Gone  are  the  shaggy  buffalo 

That  roamed  about  so  free 
From  the  sunny  plains  of  Texas 

To  each  far-off  spreading  sea. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  27 


Oh!  Those  Days  in  North  Dakota. 


Away  up  in  North  Dakota,  in  the  year  of  eighty-three, 
When  big  game  it  was  plentiful,  oh,  that  was  the  place 

to  be; 

Away  up  in  that  country  the  skies  are  fair  and  blue, 
And  money,  too,  was  plentiful,  but  our  neighbors  they 

were  few. 
I  am  thinking  now  of  Dickinson,  my  old-time  stamping 

ground, 
And  a  better  town  than  Dickinson  I'm  sure  could  not  be 

found ; 
The  joints  were  throwed  wide  open  and  no  sheriff  had 

his  say, 
In  those  days  up  in  Dakota  near  the  Bad  Lands   far 

away. 

I  have  traveled  many  thousand  miles,  but  never  yet  have 

found 

A  place  just  to  my  notion  as  the  North  Dakota  ground; 
Her  prairies  were  so  beautiful,  out-spreading  far  and 

wide, 
Where  the  curlews  and  the  plovers  in  the  wavy  grass 

could  hide. 
Her  washouts  and  her  coolies  are  something  great  and 

grand 

In  the  little  Missouri  country  where  the  Killdeer  moun 
tains  stand. 
Oh,  those  days  in  North  Dakota,  where  the  skies  are 

fair  and  blue, 
When  big  game  it  was  plentiful  and  the  hunters  brave 

and  true. 

Talk  about  the  graceful  antelope,  they  truly  did  abound 
In  the  North  Dakota  country  where  the  cannon  ball  is 
found ; 


28  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

I  have  seen  them  bunched  together,  four  hundred  in  a 

band, 

A-roaming  hither  thither  in  this  glorious  good  old  land. 
If  you  want  to  take  a  trip,  my  boys,  in  land  want  to 

invest, 

Just  figure  with  a  hunter  who  has  lived  a  life  out  West, 
When  the  joints  were  all  throwecl  open  and  no  sheriff 

had  his  say, 
In  the  North  Dakota  country,  near  the  Bad  Lands  far 

away. 

With  a  roving  disposition  that  would  never  let  me  rest 

I  drifted  for  my  fortune  in  the  undeveloped  West; 

I  learned  to  set  the  beaver  trap  when  earth  lay  white 

with  snow, 
And  when  the  fur  was  sold  or  shipped  I'd  pocket  up  the 

dough. 
Oh,  for  those  bright  days  back  again  when  the  buffalo 

used  to  roam 
Across  the  dreary  old  Bad  Lands  so  close  around  our 

home ; 
Oh,  those  days  in  North  Dakota,  where  the  skies  are 

fair  and  blue, 
When  big  game  it  was  plentiful  and  our  neighbors  they 

were  few. 

It  seems  that  camping  nowadays  ain't  what  it  used  to  be 
In  the  camp  on  Old  Heart  river  in  the  year  of  eighty- 
three  ; 

The  very  recollection  of  that  buffalo  steer  and  fries 
Brings  a  heaving  at  my  bosom,  and  the  water  to  my  eyes. 
With  a  cup  of  good  hot  coffee  in  the  morning,  don't  you 

know, 

The  way  that  we  would  relish  it,  indeed,  it  was  not  slow : 
I  would  like  to  live  that  life  again,  where  the  skies  are 

fair  and  blue, 

When  big  game  it  was  plentiful  and  the  hunters  brave 
and  true. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  29 

Oh,  you  who  live  in  cities  where  your  theaters  are  so 

slow, 
With  your  prima  donna  round-ups,  how  little  that  you 

know ; 

Just  go  and  seek  some  lovely  place  in  a  far  secluded  spot, 
Where  Nature's  tumbling  over,  it's  the  place  you  long 

have  sought. 
Your  youthful  days  will  then  return ;  you'll  feel  them  as 

of  yore, 
When  you  wandered  through  the  meadow  field  far  from 

your  cabin  door ; 
I  am  sure  you'll  look  more  beautiful  when  the  bloom  of 

health  returns, 
By  romping  round  with  Nature  'midst  the  flowers  and 

the  ferns. 

Oh,  I  love  to  romp  with  Nature  away  from  folks  and 

noise, 

With  Nature  just  a-hugging  me;  oh,  my,  it  gives  me  joy; 
Then  I   feel  that  I  am  happy  and  can  write  a  better 

rhyme, 

So  I'd  like  to  be  a-living  out  with  Nature  all  the  time. 
I  wish  that  I  could  always  look  out  from  the  misty  haze 
Upon  that  wild,  wild  country  where  I  spent  such  happy 

days; 
Where  the  joints  were  all  throwed  open  and  no  sheriff 

had  his  say, 
In  that  North  Dakota  country,  near  the  Bad  Lands  far 

away. 

There  was  Charley  Tear,  an  old  friend,  I  want  to  speak 

of  him; 
He  was  not  built  like  old  Dutch  John,  but  he  was  tall 

and  slim. 

Charley,  do  you  remember  the  northern  lights  so  bright, 
How  the  stars  would  shine  and  sparkle  like  great  electric 

lights  ? 

Do  you  remember  Mrs.  Smith,  how  badly  she  was  scared, 
She  thought  the  judgment  day  had  come  and  she  was 

not  prepared? 


30  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

Oh,  those  days  in  North  Dakota,  when  the  moon  was 
;full  and  bright, 

When  the  stars  would  shine  and  sparkle  like  great  elec 
tric  lights. 

And  there's  the  Cowboy  Artist,  too,  he's  one  I  do  esteem, 
Some  of  his  paintings  almost  speak,  so  true  to  life  they 

seem ; 
He  paints  those  twisting  Western  bronks  away  up  in 

the  air, 
And  a  rider  on  his  back  with  quirt  a-fanning  of  him 

there. 

They  are  so  very  true  to  life,  the  bronk  a-coming  high, 
You  see  an  exhibition  between  the  earth  and  sky ; 
Long  may  he  live  to  use  the  brush,  immortal  be  his  name, 
Like  glittering  gold  to  live  and  shine  on  the  firmament 

of  fame. 

Yes,  Russell  is  a  whole-souled  man  who  meets  you  with 

a  smile. 
Who  treats  you  as  a  friend,  indeed,  in  true  good  Western 

style. 
Montana  is  his  dwelling  place  and  Great  Falls  is  his 

home, 
And  I  give  to  him  my  best  regards  with  a  handshake  all 

my  own. 
Death-on-the-Trail,  another   friend,   a  hunter,  too,   and 

scout, 
He  was  an  old-time  frontier  man  who  knew  well  all  the 

route ; 
He  now  lies  deep  in  Mother  Earth,  a-sleeping  way  out 

West, 
My  sympathy  won't  wake  him  up,  .nor  rob  him  of  his 

rest. 

There's  Harry  Snow,  another  friend,  in  Oklahoma's  land, 
An  Oklahoma  boomer,  too,  whose  path  and  trail  has 

scanned. 
There  sunlit  fields  of  golden  grain  and  vineyards   do 

abound, 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  31 

And  where  the  apple,  peach  and  plum  on  every  ranch  is 

found. 

Harry  G.,  my  old-time  friend,  is  wife  and  children  well? 
May  peace  and  joy  and  happiness  within  your  household 

dwell ; 
May  sun-kissed  cheeks  and  love-lit  hearts  give  you  their 

greatest  share 
And  guide  you  to  that  morning  star  that  shines  away 

up  there. 

There's  Morgan  Frank,  a.  friend  of  mine,  an  old-time 

honored  friend, 
I  have  not  heard  from  Frank  for  years,  his  life  may  had 

its  end ; 
He  had  a  great  big  Western  heart  that  beat  his  bosom 

warm, 
A  true  child  of  the  Western  plains,  of  blizzard  and  of 

storm, 

And  in  the  Black  Hill's  early  day  he  was  away  up  there 
A-hunting  elk  and  buffalo,  likewise  the  deer  and  bear. 
If  he  is  dead,  sweet  be  his  rest;  pray  don't  disturb  him 

now, 
And  may  the  Coming  King  with  love  place  laurels  on  his 

brow. 

Oh,  there's  a  host  of  old-time  friends,  I  reach  to  them 

my  hand, 
And   some  day  I   shall  make  a  trip  to  that  good  old 

glorious  land. 
I  now  look  back  on  happier  days  and  see  the  old-time 

faces, 
And  sit  with  you,  and  talk  with  you,  in  old  familiar 

places. 
And  I  often  feel  my  heart  rise  up  like  a  flapjack  in  my 

throat 

To  give  me  a  reprover  of  a  letter  I  never  wrote 
And  sent  to  old-time  honored  friends,  where  skies  are 

fair  and  blue, 
Where  big  game  once  was  plentiful  and  the  hunters  brave 

and  true. 


32  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

Now  some  of  these  old  pioneers  lay  with  the  silent  dead, 
Their  great  big  hearts  beat  warm  and  true  until  their 

breath  had  fled; 

And  in  the  city  of  the  dead  there  lies  the  last  remains 
Of  men  as  brave  as  ever   lived   or  trod  the  Western 

plains. 
And  you,  oh  cherished  frontier  men,  a-sleeping  way  out 

West, 
With  Western  plains  a-hugging  you  close  to  their  loving 

breast, 
Give  thanks  to  the  Redeemer  man,  you  sleep  where  skies 

are  blue, 
Where  tender  hearts  still  think  of  you  and  men  are  brave 

and  true. 

Now  the  antelope  and  buffalo  gone,  oh,  what  a  mighty 

change, 
And  most  of  the  old-time  pioneers  have  gone  across  the 

range ; 

Away  across  the  Great  Divide,  beyond  the  peaks  of  snow, 
To  a  land  where  they  cannot  return,  but  where  we  all 

must  go. 
Oh,  do  you  dream  in  your  last  sleep  of  how  you  used 

to  do 
When  big  game  it  was  plentiful  and  the  hunters  brave 

and  true  ? 
But  they  are  gone,   sweet  be  their  sleep,   please  don't 

disturb  them  now, 
And  may  the  Coming  King  with  love  place  laurels  on 

their  brows. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  33 

The  Bucking  Broncho,  Dickinson,  North 
Dakota. 


There  was  a  bronk  in  Dickinson 

Which  weighed  a  thousand  pounds, 
And  a  harder  pitching  broncho 

In  the  world  could  not  be  found. 
They  knew  they  had  a  pitcher 

And  hard  they  tried  to  show 
That  not  a  man  in  Dickinson 

Could  ride  him  for  the  dough. 

But  the  woolly  West  has  riders, 

And  I  wrant  you  all  to  know, 
They  will  ride  your  bucking  broncho 

In  a  way  that  won't  be  slow. 
One  day  there  came  to  Dickinson 

A  Texas  boy,  Monroe, 
"Put  up,"  he  said,  "some  money, 

"And  I'll  ride  your  bronk  for  dough.' 

Then  the  dollars  they  were  counted, 

And  soon  the  fun  begun, 
And  Monroe,  the  Texas  puncher, 

Took  a  trip  toward  the  sun. 
When  they  led  out  Mr.  Broncho, 

They  called  him  Fare-You-Well, 
Monroe  soon  took  the  saddle 

With  a  wild  Comanche  yell. 

Talk  about  your  pitching-  bronchos — 

It  surely  was  a  sight 
To  see  him  yonder  in  the  air 

A-turning  left  and  right. 
Yet  still  Monroe  stayed  with  him, 

And  raked  him  flank  and  hip; 
He  fanned  him  lively  with  his  quirt 

And  urged  another  trip. 

To  the  north  side  and  the  south  side, 
And  all  about  the  town, 


34  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RAN  GEL  AND 

He  rode  that  pitching  broncho 
Like  a  double- jointed  clown. 

It  was  plain  that  Western  outlaw 
Had  done  his  level  best, 

And  that  reckless  Texas  puncher 
Was  there  to  stand  the  test. 

When  he  could  not  throw  his  rider, 

Then  he  tossed  around  his  head, 
To  pull  him  from  the  saddle  seat 

And  stamp  him  there  till  dead. 
But  as  he  threw  around  his  head 

He  met  that  fearful  spur, 
That  rowled  him  up  that  old  jawbone 

With  blood  and  hair  and  fur. 

Then  all  about  the  town,  my  boys, 

He  played  another  tune — 
It  was  not  a  floradora 

Nor  the  ragtime  of  a  coon — 
But  it  was  real  old  pitching,  boys, 

Backed  up  by  nerve  and  grit, 
But  Bill  was  in  the  saddle  sure 

To  ride  him,  till  he  quit. 

To  the  east  side  and  the  west  side, 

Then  all  about  the  town, 
He  rode  that  pitching  broncho 

Till  he  squarely  rode  him  down. 
Then  he  sprung  from  out  the  saddle 

And  landed  on  his  feet, 
While  the  people  loud  were  cheering 

Till  they  shook  the  very  street. 

If  you  have  a  furious  pitcher 

That  has  never  yet  been  rode 
Call  on  that  Texas  puncher, 

He  has  never  yet  been  throwed. 
So  here's  to  that  old-time  rider, 

Long  may  he  live  to  ride, 
And  find  the  trail  to  the  home  corral 

Across  the  Great  Divide. 


'And  I'll  Rid-c   Your  Bronk  for  Dough. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  35 


The  Cowboy's  Last  Ride. 

A  young  Cowboy  rose  early  one  morning 
And  saddled  his  bronk  for  a  ride, 

He  hit  the  high  hills  and  the  valleys 
With  Jimmy,  his  Pard,  by  his  side. 

It  was  out  on  the  Little  Missouri, 

Where  they  went  to  look  after  some  strays, 

And  where  the  old  mountains  of  Killdeer 
Loomed  up  a  short  distance  away. 

They  had  left  their  camp  early  that  morning, 
With  their  hearts  very  buoyant  and  gay ; 

They  left  like  two  bright,  happy  children 
Who  were  brimful  and  over  with  play. 

They  rode  the  high  hills  and  the  valleys, 
But  never  a  stray  could  they  find; 

They  searched  the  deep  coolies  and  washouts, 
Where  many  a  cowtrail  did  wind. 

At  noon  they  struck  an  old  cowcamp 
And  stopped  to  fill  up  on  some  chop, 

For  the  Cowmen  are  always  big-hearted 
And  will  give  you  the  best  in  the  shop. 

And  when  they  had  eaten  their  dinner 
They  started  again  on  the  range, 

But  a  cloud  rolling  up  from  cloudland 
Said  the  weather  had  took  on  a  change. 

So  they  took  from  behind  their  old  saddles 
A  slicker  to  keep  themselves  dry, 

A  protection  from  rain,  wind  or  weather, 
No  matter  how  hard  it  may  try. 

But  it  happened,  as  it  sometimes  does, 
That  the  wind  blew  the  rain  all  away 


36  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

And  the  boys  still  rode  the  prairie 
A-trying  to  look  up  the  strays. 

But  just  as  the  sun  was  a-setting 

A  saloon  and  store  cabin  they  struck. 

"If  we  can't  find  the  strays,"  said  Jimmy, 
"We  have  found  quite  a  rich  streak  of  luck." 

So  up  they  rode  to  the  store  cabin 

And  unsaddled  their  bronks  for  the  night, 

And  a  great  big  smoking  hot  supper 
Filled  the  boys  with  a  happy  delight. 

After  supper  they  went  to  card  playing 

And  shuffled  away  until  late, 
And  for  wild,  reckless,  careless  Cowpunchers 

Could  play  at  a  pretty  good  rate. 

They  had  at  the  cabin  strong  whisky, 
And  it  got  all  the  boys  in  a  row, 

For  Jimmy  and  Bill  were  no  cowards, 
But  would  fight  like  an  old  Texas  cow. 

They  had  that  night  at  the  cabin 
A  couple  of  pretty  tough  girls; 

Card  playing,  bad  women  and  whisky 
Soon  got  the  boys'  heads  all  awhirl. 

The  fracas  then  started  in  earnest 

And  they  pulled  out  their  old  forty-five, 

And  Billy  was  shot  through  the  body 
And  never  would  go  back  alive. 

A  sad,  sad  day  when  Cowpunchers 

Took  Billy  away  to  his  rest; 
They  stuck  up  a  board  for  a  headstone 

And  planted  a  rose  on  his  breast. 

Card  playing,  bad  women  and  whisky 
Has  often  led  Cowboys  astray, 

And  then  their  handy  six-shooter 
Would  put  someone  out  of  the  way. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  37 

Quite  often  we  talked  of  young  Billy, 
Who  was  shot  in  a  low,  drunken  fight, 

Who  early  left  camp  in  the  morning, 
But  never  went  back  there  at  night. 

There  we  planted  young  Billy  next  morning, 

While  the  tears  quite  tenderly  fell, 
And  we  left  him  to  sleep  in  the  bosom 

Of  the  West  that  he  loved  so  well. 

The  raindrop  kissed  the  lily 

By  the  morning  glory  vine, 
And  the  lily  kissed  the  ivy 

And  the  ivy  kissed  the  pine. 

All  were  sweet  and  lovely 

Like  a  cloudless  summer  day, 
For  the  golden  sun  was  setting 

And  her  jewels  were  at  play. 


The  Cowgirl. 


When  Western  winds  would  move  the  air 
Her  tresses  dark  would  flow, 

And  fall  upon  her  bosom  fair 
Like  shadows  over  snow. 


38  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 


A  Talk  with  an  Old  Friend. 


One  day  when  I  was  roving  on  the  foothills  of  the  West 
I  met  young  Henry  Grammer,  with  spurs  and  schapps 

was  dressed, 

And  as  we  talked  together  of  hardships  on  the  way 
His  mind  went  back  to  Texas  and  these  words  to  me 

did  say: 

"I  would  rather  live  in  Texas  than  any  place  on  earth, 
For  it  was  the  state  of  Texas  that  gave  to  me  my  birth. 

"I  have  been  said  to  be  a  ranger  upon  her  sunlit  plains, 
And  though  I'm  far  from  there  today  her  memory  still 

remains ; 

I  have  spread  my  old  tarpaulin  so  often  on  her  lawn, 
But  now  I  sigh  to  think  of  them,  for  those  bright  days 

are  gone, 

And  I  would  rather  live  in  Texas  than  any  place  on  earth, 
For  it  was  the  state  of  Texas  that  gave  to  me  my  birth. 

"T'was  on  her  wide    prairies  where    the    long-horned 

cattle  ranged, 
But  now  the  grass  is  all  eat  out,  their  feeding  ground 

has  changed ; 

So  I  left  my  sunny  southland  to  ride  upon  the  Platte, 
Where  the  punchers    are  good    rustlers  and  the  cattle 

always  fat ; 
But  she  cannot  beat  old  Texas,  she's  the  best  place  on 

the  earth, 
For  it  was  the  state  of  Texas  that  gave  to  me  my  birth. 

"I  have  been  up  in  Montana,  away  up  on  the  line, 
Where  the  winter  sun  is  waiting  for  the  summer  sun  to 

shine ; 
Where  the  spring  and  fall  and  summer  is  but  one  long 

winter  day 

And  the  aurora  borealis  brighten  up  the  milky  way; 
So  I  would  rather  live  in  Texas  than  any  place  on  earth, 
For  it  was  the  state  of  Texas  that  gave  to  me  my  birth. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  39 

"I   have   been   in    Colorado,   and   I   think   she's   mighty 

grand, 
Where  the  little  streams  are  busy  washing  down  her 

-golden  sand, 
And   away  up  in  Wyoming  where  the   Devil's  Tower 

stands, 

And  it  surely  is  a  wonder  if  there's  any  in  the  land; 
Yet  I  would  rather  live  in  Texas  than  any  place  on  earth, 
For  it  was  the  state  of  Texas  that  gave  to  me  my  birth. 

"I  have  rode  in  Oklahoma,  the  land  you  used  to  roam, 
Four  hundred  miles  of  sunlit  plains,  a  thousand  more 

from  home; 
I  have  watched  the  little  doggies  grow  up  to  great  big 

steers, 
But  now  the  farmer  with  his  fence  has  met  the  changing 

years. 
So  there  is  no  place  like  Texas,  she's  the  best  place  on 

the  earth, 
And  it  was  the  state  of  Texas  that  gave  to  me  my  birth. 

"I  have  rode  the  Osage  country,  where  the  Indians  ride 

and  shoot, 
And  where  the  bucking  broncho  beats  an  airship  on  a 

toot; 
Where  they  all  jump  high  and  crooked  like  Oklahoma 

Dick, 
And  the  man  that  keeps  the  saddle  is  the  one  that's  pretty 

slick. 
That's  the  way  they  do  in  Texas,  twist  and  flop  o'er  all 

the  earth, 
And  it  was  the  state  of  Texas  that  gave  to  me  my  birth. 

"At  Oklahoma  City,  in  the  bucking  contest  there, 

I  rode  them  high  and  crooked  and  I  won  their  money 

fair. 

At  old  Fort  Worth  and  Denison,  and  also  Guthrie,  too, 
In  riding  and   roping  took   first  prize   when  all   were 

through. 

Soon  I'll  go  back  to  Texas,  take  my  old  tarpaulin  bed, 
And  stay  in  the  state  of  Texas  where  I  was  born  and 

bred." 


40  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 


Leaving  Deer  Lodge  Prison. 

I  had  gone  into  the  office  to  dress  and  put  on  my 
fine  suit  of  clothes  which  the  Deer  Lodge  prison  fur 
nishes  to  everyone  who  leaves  that  institution  of  crime, 
when  in  come  Dan  Tewey,  the  deputy  warden.  Speak 
ing  to  the  office  man,  he  says :  "Where's  all  this  writ 
ing  Beggs  has  been  doing?"  I  spoke  up.  "It  is  here  in 
my  pete  (or  box).  Do  you  want  to  examine  it?"  "Cer 
tainly  I  do.  It  all  has  to  be  read." 

I  unlocked  the  pete  and  laid  out  my  writings. 

With  a  look  of  amazement  and  surprise,  he  asked: 
"Is  that  all  writing  that  was  done  here  ?" 

"Certainly,"  says  I. 

"How  long  have  you  been  at  it?" 

"Ever  since  I  have  been  here." 

"Well,  you  will  have  to  leave  it  here  so  it  can  be 
read." 

"Oh,  no.     I  don't  do  that." 

"I  can't  read  that  in  a  month." 

"I  can't  help  that;  I  can  read  it  in  less  time." 

"Why  did  you  not  bring  this  writing  to  the  office 
so  it  could  all  be  read?" 

"Because  that  was  not  my  business." 

"Well,  you  will  have  to  go  out  without  it." 

"Well,  I  will  not." 

(He  goes  to  the  phone.)  "Mr.  Conley,  I  can't  read 
all  this  writing  Beggs  has  in  a  month." 

Conley — "Read  it,  read  it,  if  it  takes  two  months." 

Tewey — "You  will  have  to  go  and  leave  it  here." 

"But  I  tell  you  I  will  not  go  and  leave  it  here.  I  am 
in  no  hurry  at  all.  I  have  spent  five  years  here.  I  can 
spend  another  month,  all  right. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  41 

"You  must  go." 

"But  I  don't  go  until  my  writings  go  with  me." 

Tewey  picks  up  a  piece  and  begins  to  read : 

"Come,  look  across  the  old  cow  range, 

I  rode  it  years  ago, 
Before  the  range  was  all  fenced  up 

And  Cowboys  had  a  show. 
Now,  as  we  look  we  view  the  sight 

As  through  a  hazy  mist, 
For  just  as  far  as  eye  can  see 

These  fences  do  exist." 

Tewey — "Oh,  that  isn't  bad.     It  is  all  right.'' 
"Certainly  it  is,"  says  I. 

Tewey  turns  over  a  few  pages  and  reads  again. 
(Written  on  Mt.  Pisgah,  Cripple  Creek,  Colo.) 

Although  I  stand  on  Pisgah  heights 

I  see  no  promised  land, 
But  Cripple  Creek,  the  mining  camp 

Lies  off  to  my  right  hand." 

"I  don't  see  anything  wrong  with  this  writing." 
"Certainly  you  don't.     I  knew  what  to  write  and 
what  not  to  write." 

Tewey  turns  a  few  more  pages  and  reads : 

"This  takes  me  back  to  childhood, 

And  it  makes  the  teardrop  start 
To  find  these  prison  guards  so  wise, 

And  I  am  not  so  smart." 

Tewey — "Well,  you  will  have  to  leave  it.  It  has 
all  to  be  examined." 

"But  I  have  told  you  I  would  not  leave  it.  And  I 
mean  it,  too.  I  am  in  no  hurry." 

Tewey  turns  a  few  more  pages  and  reads : 


42  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

"THE  OLD  CALF  PANTS  WASHED." 


"I  send  yon  in  my  old  calf  pants, 

The  only  ones  I  got. 
For  three  long1  months  I've  cherished  them 

Until  they  got  the  rot. 

I  hate  to  send  them  in,  you  know, 

They  are  so  smooth  and  slick ; 
They  cover  my  long  limbering  shanks 

Whereon  the  calves  do  lick." 

Tewey — "Well,  it  is  no  use  in  talking.  You  must 
go." 

"But  I  am  here  to  tell  you  I  don't  go/' 

Tewey  still  keeps  turning  some  pages,  then  reads : 

"Pick  them  up  tenderly,  up  from  their  lair, 
Written  quite  splendidly,  handle  with  care. 
Just  give  them  a  notice  and  pass  them  quick  by ; 
You  can't  bluff  the  donkey,  it's  no  use  to  try. 

"Here  stands  a  guard,  hero  without  any  brains, 
He  picks  up  a  package,  looks  long  and  retains. 
Just  then  a  sensation  passes  over  his  skin, 
He  draws  a  long  breath  and  at  once  pitches  in. 

"Your  nerves  are  not  steady,  your  optic  not  good, 
I  see  you  are  shaking,  I  thought  that  you  would. 
But,  pardner,  be  careful  as  you  search  the  resort, 
For  it's  not  at  all  subject  to  this  kind  of  sport." 

Tewey  shuts  up  box,  saying :  "You  must  leave  them, 
I  tell  you,  and  go.'' 

"No,  sir.  I  will  not  go.  Do  you  hear  it?  Take 
me  inside,  for  I  will  never  leave  here  until  I  have  all  my 
writing." 

"We  will  send  them  all  to  von." 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  43 

"I  will  save  you  all  that  trouble.  Take  me  inside. 
I  am  in  no  hurry.  I  am  attached  to  the  place.  I  have 
an  interest  here.  Take  me  inside." 

"Well,  take  them;  and  go,  and  you  have  only  a  few 
minutes  until  train  time." 

"Oh,  I  can  make  it." 

So  I  pulled  off  my  old  prison  suit.  A  guard 
searched  them.  I  put  on  my  new  ones,  and  they  were 
dandies.  A  guard  went  with  me  to  the  depot,  and  with 
my  gate  money — $5.00 — bought  me  a  ticket  to  Butte. 

So  now  I  am  here  at  the  depot, 

And  I  hear  that  the  train  is  some  late. 

I  think  if  the  trainmen  don't  hurry 
My  clothes  will  soon  go  out  of  date. 

Well,  those  clothes  began  to  fall  apart  before  I  got 
to  Bozeman.  A  $2.50  suit  and  the  state  pays  Conley 
$25.00  for  the  suit. 

There  is  grafting  in  the  prisons 

In  a  hundred  different  ways, 
And  the  system  of  the  grafters 

Is  a  graft  that  always  pays. 

(Bring  on  another  prisoner) 
While  the  mills  of  the  gods 
Grinds  out  another  toll. 


44  RHYMES   FROM    THE  RANGELAND 


A  Stampede  in  Texas. 

We  started  from  Mobeetie  up  to  the  northern  range 
With  a  lively  bunch  of  cattle  and  a  boss  called  Jim  Ma 

Lange ; 
We  all  were  good  old  Cowboys  who  loved  to  ride  and 

roam 
Along  that  great  old  cattle  trail   so  many  miles  from 

home. 

We  traveled  on  and  on  that  day  and  bedded   for  the 

night 

On  the  sunny  plains  of  Texas,  it  was  a  lovely  sight ; 
A  jollier  band  of  Cowboys  you  never  well  could  find, 
To  each  other  we  were  loyal,  to  a  stranger  we  were  kind. 

We  early  left  that  bedding  ground  just  at  the  break  of 

day, 
We  traveled  o'er  the  sunlit  plains  all  dressed  in  Nature's 

way; 
And  listened  to  the  Western  winds  and  songs  of  the 

curlew, 
And  whiled  away  the  hour  of  noon  where  sweet  wild 

flowers  grew. 

Boys,  it  was  a  lovely  evening  when  we  pulled  into  camp, 
The  mocking  birds  were  singing  where  we  hung  our 

signal  lamp; 
But  from  the  west  there  came  a  cloud  as  black  as  raven 

night, 
And  we  boys  made  things  all  ready  for  a  ride  before 

daylight. 

Soon  our  cattle  they  grew  frisky  and  at  once  began  to  go 
Right  back  to  Mobeetie  with  a  gait  that  wasn't  slow; 
The   rain    it   fell   in   torrents   and   the   lightning   freely 

flashed, 
Every  Cowboy  on  his  broncho  to  the  front  he  boldly 

dashed. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  -15 

The  stampede  it  was  sudden,  every  steer  was  on  the  fly, 
Their  heads  were  lifted  upwards  and  their  tails  were 

lifted  high ; 
They  leaped,  they  ran  across  the  plains  for  forty  miles 

or  more, 
And  such  another  stampede  I  never  saw  before. 

Every  boy  soon  got  the  saddle,  every  bronk  was  on  the 

fly, 

Everything  was  total  darkness,  not  a  star  was  in  the  sky ; 
We  followed  them  till  morning,  every  bronk  was  at  his 

best, 
We  determined  not  to  leave  them  while  a  heart  beat  in 

our  breast. 

We  finally  stopped  those  frightened  steers  and  brought 

them  to  a  stand 

Just  as  the  morning  sun  arose  upon  that  Western  land ; 
Many  a  steer  that  night  lay  dead  and  many  a  broncho 

bled, 
And  one  of  our  noble  boys  that  night  lay  numbered  with 

the  dead. 

No  more  he'll  saddle  up  his  bronk  beneath  that  sunlit  sky, 
No  more  he'll  hear  the  clinking  hoofs  of  cattle  on  the  fly; 
No  more  he'll  ride  at  breakneck  speed  across  the  track 
less  plains, 
A  surging  host  of  cattle  wild  trod  over  his  remains. 

Come  all  you  good  old  Cowboys,  I  look  to  you  with 
pride, 

Who  herd  the  long-horned  cattle  and  the  Western  bron 
cho  ride; 

Here's  health  to  you,  my  jolly  boys,  who  roam  the 
Western  wilds, 

And  luck  to  all  the  frontier  men  who  love  our  good  old 
style. 


46  RHYMES   FROM    THE  RANGELAND 


The  Work  of  a  Bad  Cowboy. 

Put  on  the  blanket  and  saddle, 

Start  them  up  with  a  whoop  and  a  yell; 
Persuade  them,  tempt  them  and  shove  them 

To  the  depth  of  a  real  human  hell. 

Go  gather  them  in  from  the  midnight, 
Go  hurry  them  out  of  their  bed, 

Go  show  them  the  glass,  sparkling  goblet, 
Go  show  them  the  wine  that  is  red. 


The  Work  of  a  Good  Cowboy. 

Go  tell  them  the  death  cruel  serpent 

For  a  moment  is  taking  a  nap, 
To  arouse  in  the  glow  of  the  morning 

And  hurry  them  on  through  the  gap. 

Go  put  on  the  schapps  and  the  Stetson, 
Go  heed  the  loud  call  of  His  word, 

For  a  million  today  is  a-drifting 
And  straying  away  from  the  herd. 

Go  search  the  deep  coolies  and  washouts, 
Where  they  gather  resigned  to  their  fate; 

Go  hurry  them  out  to  the  windbreak 
On  the  trail  of  the  old  home  gate. 

Go  nail  lip  the  bars  at  the  bog-hole, 
And  feed  the  young  calves  from  a  pan, 

For  the  whole  drunken  tribe  of  creation 
Will  break  in  every  night  if  they  can. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  47 


Go  Chum  with  the  Geysers  Awhile. 


You  no  doubt  have  heard  of  the  Yellowstone  Park, 

The  great  Wonderland  of  the  world ; 
This  great  Wonderland,  the  pride  of  the  West, 

Has  its  flaglets  of  beauty  unfurled. 

The  greatest  of  wonders  in  the  Yellowstone  Park 
Are  the  wonderful  mammoth  hot  springs; 

Here  deep-heated  water  pours  vapor  and  steam 
While  the  waste  away  \vater  most  beautifully  sings. 

There  is  ravishing  beauty  in  the  Yellowstone  Park, 

For  Nature  has  done  her  work  well; 
The  mountains  and  hilltops,  rivers  and  rills, 

With  beauty  enchanting  doth  swell. 

There's  canyons  of  beauty  in  the  Yellowstone  Park, 

Outshining  the  jewels  of  queen; 
Where  sapphires  of  beauty  are  hidden  from  sight, 

With  beautiful  diamonds  between. 

There's  the  Yellowstone  Canyon  in  that  great  Wonder 
land, 

Where  beautiful  loveliness  flash  ; 
Where  swift,  angry  water  with  froth  and  with  foam 

The  walls  of  their  prison  house  lash. 

Oh,  that  Yellowstone  Canyon,  the  gem  of  the  Park, 

With  wonderful  wisdom  was  made; 
And  flowers,  sweet  flowers,  surrounded  with  ferns, 

Grows  there  in  the  dark  cedar  shade. 

Oh,  that  canyon  so  deep,  so  awful,  so  grand, 
That  the  brain  of  the  human  soul  reels; 

And  as  they  look  down  in  the  deep,  dizzy  gorge, 
The  hand  of  solemnity  feels. 


48  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

There  are  beautiful  streams  in  the  Yellowstone  Park 
That  tumble  through  mountains  of  snow ; 

That  plunge  over  cataracts  rugged  and  rough, 
With  never  a  stop  in  their  flow. 

A  beautiful  sight  in  the  Yellowstone  Park 
Are  the  geysers  when  seen  in  their  play ; 

The  Giant,  Old  Faithful,  Artemesia,  The  Fan, 
Are  awful  and  grand  in  their  way. 

You  will  surely  feel  weaker  in  your  effort  of  strength 
When  the  Fire  Hole  and  the  Hell  Hole  you  see, 

And  think  when  these  wonders  their  swaddling  bands 

burst, 
Oh,  where  will  humanity  be? 

The  transcendant  beauty  of  the  Yellowstone  Park 

Bedazzles  the  far-seeing  eye ; 
Where  the  blankets  of  beauty  over  Nature  is  spread 

And  the  hand  of  the  Master  is  nigh. 

No  beauty  in  city,  in  the  village  or  town 
With  the  Yellowstone  Park  can  compete; 

Here  rivers  and  creeks,  rivulets  and  rills, 
In  mystified  beauty  doth  sleep. 

There  is  something  inspiring  in  the  Yellowstone  Park 

That  fills  with  a  silent  delight ; 
And  when  I  reflect  on  such  picturesque  scenes 

My  trouble  and  sorrow  takes  flight. 

The  natural  scenery  in  the  Yellowstone  Park 

Is  lovely,  majestic  and  grand ; 
Such  scenery  I  love,  it  fills  with  delight, 

For  it  is  of  no  mortal  man's  hand. 

It  is  surely  great  pleasure  in  the  Yellowstone  Park 

Your  canvas  to  spread  on  the  green, 
And  spend  the  swift  hours  in  laughter  and  song, 

And  talking  of  what  you  have  seen. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  49 

Then  life  in  its  beauty  will  kiss  your  pale  cheeks, 

And  drive  from  your  soul  all  its  care ; 
Give  a  hearty,  stout  look  with  a  sweet,  cheerful  smile, 

As  you  breathe  in  the  pure  scented  air. 

It  is  here  in  their  beauty  the  geysers  do  spout 

And  toss  up  their  silvery  spray, 
And  gleam  in  the  light  of  the  brilliant  old  sun 

Like  showers  of  jewels  at  play. 

That  woe-begone  look  that  mantles  your  face 

You  will  scare  far  away  with  a  smile 
If  you  will  but  come  to  this  great  Wonderland 

And  chum  with  the  geysers  awhile. 

Where  Nature,  with  beautiful  garments  are  decked, 
And  the  geysers  do  spout  at  their  best; 

Where  the  Angel  of  Peace  plants  the  flowers  of  love, 
To  bloom  on  the  trail  of  the  West. 

So  pack  up  clothing,  your  hammock  and  tent 

And  away  to  this  Wonderland  go, 
To  look  on  the  ravishing  beauty  of  earth, 

Spread  here  for  poor  mortals  below. 

Come,  roll  up  your  blankets  and  gather  your  wraps 

And  take  a  glad  look  at  the  pile, 
And  hit  the  old  trail  to  this  great  Wonderland 

And  chum  with  the  geysers  awhile. 


50  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 


To  My  Indian  Friends. 

God  made  you,  my  brother,  in  His  own  perfect  way, 
And  on  no  reservation  compelled  you  to  stay ; 
But  through  the  wide  world  you  could  rove  at  your  ease, 
Could  ride,  or  could  walk,  or  could  go  as  you  please. 

As  free  as  the  wind  o'er  the  plains  of  the  West 
Was  freedom  implanted  to  thrive  in  your  breast; 
To  be  a  free  Indian,  to  think  or  to  talk, 
To  travel  or  to  stop,  to  ride  or  to  walk. 

But  on  no  reservation  He  compelled  you  to  stay, 
To  shorten  your  years  or  to  sadden  your  day; 
But  He  made  you  as  free  as  the  dove  on  her  nest, 
To  love  and  to  cherish  the  seed  in  your  breast. 

But  I  see  you  corralled,  and  it's  here  you  must  stay 
Till  your  form  becomes  bent  and  your  hair  becomes  gray. 
The  round-up  has  caught  you  and  gathered  you  in 
For  greed  and  for  profit,  for  your  scalp  and  your  skin. 

Your  buffaloes  are  gone,  now  no  more  to  be  seen, 
Those  huge  shaggy  fellows  that  once  fed  on  the  green ; 
The  white  man  he  did  it,  no  blame  lies  on  you, 
He  went  to  the  slaughter,  to  slay  and  pursue. 

Your  wigwams  are  scattered,  your  braves  are  all  gone, 
Like  the  elk  and  the  bear,  like  the  deer  and  the  fawn ; 
Gone  are  Red  Men  from  the  plains  of  the  West, 
Who  were  brave,  true  and  loyal  to  the  core  of  their 
breast. 


"W hen   the  Steer's   a   Flying   Circus- 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  51 


When  Your  Hull*  Begins  to  Roll. 

I  said  that  I  could  ride  him 

And  would  show  them  that  I  could, 
But  the  way  I'm  pulling  leather 

Looks  as  though  I  won't  make  good. 
Many  other  riders  found 

They  could  not  reach  the  goal 
When  the  steer  became  a  circus 

And  their  hull  began  to  roll. 

It  is  surely  recreation, 

In  a  frantic  sort  of  way, 
To  saddle  up  a  long-horned  steer, 

If  on  him  you  can  stay. 
It's  a  cinch  he'll  come  a-jumping, 

And  you'll  find  the  badger  hole, 
When  the  steer's  a  flying  circus 

And  your  hull  begins  to  roll. 

Talk  about  your  broncho  busting, 

But  a  steer  will  take  the  prize, 
\Vhen  he's  way  up  yonder  rolling. 

Water  gushing  from  your  eyes. 
When  he's  forty  leagues  from  landing, 

And  all  tied  up  in  a  knot, 
The  steer  will  be  a  winner 

And  will  drop  you  on  the  spot. 

I  don't  begrudge  the  jackpot. 

Nor  the  wager  on  the  side, 
But  admire  the  long-horned  Texas 

That  put  up  the  hardest  ride. 
You  may  find  yourself  far-reaching, 

But  you  cannot  reach  the  goal, 
When  the  steer  becomes  a  circus 

And  your  hull  begins  to  roll. 


*"Hull,"  old  saddle. 


52  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 


They  Sent  Me  Right  Over  the  Road. 

My  home  now  is  here  in  prison, 

They  lock  me  up  tight  every  night ; 
Hard  work  and  no  payday  a-coming, 

I  never  can  think  it  just  right. 
It  is  here  I  worry  till  morning, 

And  get  up  without  any  rest; 
For  I  feel  the  barbed  arrow  of  sorrow 

A-piercing  deep  into  my  breast. 

Oh,  why  am  I  here  in  this  prison, 

Locked  up  in  this  cold  house  of  stone? 
Oh,  why  am  I  here  serving  sentence? 

Oh,  why  am  I  not  at  my  home  ? 
I  have  there  a  wife  in  her  sorrow, 

Who  is  bearing  her  burden  of  grief. 
Oh,  I  would  that  I  only  could  lift  it 

And  bring  back  the  smiles  of  relief. 

It  would  grieve  my  old  father  and  mother. 

Were  both  of  them  living  today, 
To  think  that  I  shut  my  eyes  tightly 

And  wandered  so  far  from  the  way. 
But  the  seed  of  transgression  is  certain, 

And  I'm  reaping  the  crop  that  I  sowed ; 
And  serving  my  time  here  in  prison, 

For  they  sent  me  right  over  the  road. 

As  I  think  of  the  home  of  my  childhood 

My  heart  with  its  memories  are  filled. 
But  gone  like  the  buds  of  my  childhood, 

Or  roses  that  once  were  distilled. 
But  I  see  her  tonight  in  clear  vision, 

Dear  mother,  and  the  love  she  bestowed. 
Oh,  the  burden  of  grief  would  be  heavy 

If  she  knew  the  wild  seed  that  I  sowed. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  53 

My  clear  wife,  I  dearly  have  loved  her, 

And  courted  the  smiles  of  her  face, 
And  why  am  I  now  taken  from  her 

And  locked  up  in  this  cold,  horrid  place? 
My  children  they  sadly  do  miss  me, 

No  papa  to  climb  on  his  knee ; 
Oh,  the  burden  is  heavy,  dear  children, 

The  burden  on  you  and  on  me. 

Now  will  you,  my  dear  ones,  forget  me, 

And  banish  me  out  of  your  mind, 
Because  I  was  put  into  prison 

When  sinful  and  selfish  and  blind? 
The  hues  of  the  rainbow  have  faded, 

Its  lustre  no  more  can  I  see ; 
Oh,  could  I  but  feel  the  great  fullness 

And  be  what  I  once  used  to  be. 

I  realize  now  in  my  blindness 

That  my  happiness  greatly  is  marred, 
And  I've  proved  it  right  here  in  the  prison 

That  the  way  of  the  transgressor  is  hard. 
And  here  I  am  sitting  with  stripes  on 

A-reaping  the  crop  that  I  sowed, 
And  must  harvest  it  all  here  in  prison, 

For  they  sent  me  right  over  the  road. 

Despair  greets  me  early  each  morning, 

And  loneliness  stands  by  my  side; 
Such  cellmates  as  these  are  not  pleasant, 

But  yet  they  forever  abide. 
My  sorrow  seems  deeper  and  fiercer 

Than  the  waves  of  the  angry  old  sea, 
As  I  think  of  my  long,  dreary  sentence 

And  wonder  how  long  till  I'm  free. 

My  sadness  is  sickening  and  painful, 

And  the  burden  is  heavy  to  bear, 
As  I  think  of  my  friends  who  have  left  me 

And  none  of  sorrow  will  share. 


54  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

In  a  cold,  damp  cell  of  a  prison 
Is  where  I  must  smother  my  shame, 

While  the  great  high  wall  that  surrounds  me 
Throws  the  shadow  and  blot  on  my  name. 

Oh,  could  I  but  see  you,  dear  children. 

And  fondle  you  long  on  my  knee, 
And  circle  my  arms  well  around  you, 

Oh,  you  don't  know  how  happy  I'd  be. 
You  can  breathe  the  pure  air  of  the  mountains 

And  your  troubles  to  each  other  tell, 
But  I  am  distressed  and  forsaken, 

And  alone  in  this  dreary  old  cell. 

My  home  and  my  wrife  and  my  children 

I  love  as  no  other  can  love, 
And  although  a  poor  convict  in  prison 

Ask  God  to  look  down  from  above — 
To  protect  and  keep  them  together 

Ajnd  not  let  them  go  far  astray. 
Those  sweet  little  blossoms  of  childhood 

That  are  sad  and  so  lonely  today. 

This  great  cruel  wall  of  this  prison 

Stands  high  between  you  and  me, 
And  it  brings  me  no  tidings  of  freedom, 

And  no  message  from  those  who  are  free. 
There's  no  rainbow  of  promise  reflected 

By  this  cruel  and  revengeful  old  wall, 
But  its  strength  is  sufficient  for  greatness 

And  its  greatness  sufficient  for  all. 

* 
My  trouble,  indeed,  is  distressing, 

And  my  spirit  is  heavy  and  sore ; 
It  seems  that  the  balance  is  tipping 

And  will  not  bear  up  any  more. 
But  I  trustingly  look  to  the  Master, 

I  know  He  is  loving  and  kind; 
I  will  ask  Him  to  strengthen  and  lead  me 

And  not  let  me  falter  behind. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  55 

It  seems  all  my  friends  have  forsook  me, 

With  bitterness,  loathing  and  scorn, 
And  away  in  the  silent  night  watches 

I  ask  why  I  ever  was  born  ? 
This  still  makes  my  punishment  greater, 

As  I  feel  the  distress  and  the  pain, 
And  I  wish  I  was  out  in  the  moonlight, 

And  I  wish  I  was  out  in  the  rain. 

The  shadows  fall  darkly,  my  loved  ones, 

Not  a  ray  where  it  lingers  and  rests ; 
Xo  day  star  of  brightness  revealing 

The  love  that  is  hid  in  my  breast. 
Oh,  why  don't  you  value  the  living, 

While  yet  the  Great  Reaper  is  stayed  ? 
Oh.  why  don't  you  help  up  the  fallen 

Before  his  short  life  is  decayed? 

You  all  used  to  write  to  me  often 

When  I  was  away  from  the  home, 
But  now  you  have  nearly  quit  writing 

And  likely  you  all  will  disown ; 
And  never  again  call  me  father, 

Nor  listen  to  w7hat  I've  to  say, 
Because  I  am  here  in  the  prison 

And  branded  a  criminal  today. 

My  wife  seems  to  turn  the  cold  shoulder, 

Not  wishing  to  hear  my  sad  tale ; 
Oh,  God!  Have  love  and  have  mercy 

When  the  wife  of  my  bosom  doth  fail. 
So  long  we  have  both  walked  together, 

Our  joys  and  our  sorrows  were  one, 
Our  hands  and  our  hearts  both  united 

In  the  happy,  sweet  race  as  we  run. 

Oh,  that  my  dear  wife  would  stay  with  me 

And  speak  a  kind  word  to  me  now ; 
How  the  curtains  would  lift  from  my  eyelids 

And  the  furrows  go  back  from  my  brow. 


56  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

Oh,  why  did  you  tell  me  you  loved  me 
When  the  roses  of  youth  were  so  bright? 

Oh,  why  do  you  shun  and  disown  me 
Because  I'm  a  prisoner  tonight? 

I  know  there's  a  great  gushing  fountain 

Opened  up  for  the  lost  and  the  low ; 
I  know  that  the  blood  of  the  Savior 

Can  wash  me  as  white  as  the  snow. 
Long  have  I  hoped  and  have  waited, 

But  no  love  in  your  letters  I  see ; 
Now  Jesus  has  come  to  the  rescue 

And  has  saved  a  poor  sinner  like  me. 

My  hope  now  in  Jesus  is  centered, 

To  anchor  in  the  haven  of  rest; 
He  will  wash  from  the  stain  of  the  prison, 

For  He's  planted  His  peace  in  my  breast. 
So  sound  it  in  town  and  in  city 

And  send  it  far  out  on  the  sea, 
That  God  in  His  love  and  His  mercy 

Has  saved  a  poor  sinner  like  me. 

But  I  feel  that  my  health  is  a-breaking, 

My  cheeks  are  all  sunken  and  pale; 
So  write  me  a  good,  loving  letter 

And  send  it  today  in  the  mail. 
May  the  Father  of  Mercy  give  comfort 

And  protect  all  the  path  that  I  trod, 
And  bring  me  out  safe  from  this  prison 

To  walk  on  His  green,  grassy  sod. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  57 

A  Hunk  of  That  Old  Pumpkin  Pie. 

(Song.) 

I  have  wandered  so  far  in  my  rovings, 

And  hard  have  I  tried  to  forget 
The  joys  and  charms  of  my  childhood, 

But  I  cannot — I  have  not  as  yet. 

I  cannot  forget  the  old  homestead. 

No  matter  how  hard  I  may  try ; 
I  cannot  forget  that  dear  mother. 

Nor  the  taste  of  that  great  pumpkin  pie. 

My  goodness,  how  plain  I  can  see  it, 

Just  one  solid  inch  in  the  pan ; 
So  yellow,  so  rich  and  so  golden. 

With  a  "Come,  eat  it  all,  if  you  can." 

Today  in  my  gloom  and  my  sadness, 

I  fancy  I'm  back  there  to  roam 
Around  the  old  garden  and  homestead, 

In  the  joys  of  my  sweet  boyhood  home. 

Let  the  scenes  of  my  childhood  uncover, 
And  the  mist  from  my  eyes  roll  away, 

Till  I  fancy  I  see  that  log  cabin 

Where  no  shadow  of  trouble  could  play. 

In  the  shade  of  that  old  apple  orchard 

My  soul  with  enrapture  doth  swell, 
And  I  see  the  old  moss-covered  bucket 

From  which  I  would  drink  at  the  well. 

Yes,  I  see  myself  there  eating  peaches 

And  storing  the  apples  away, 
And  picking  some  ripe,  juicy  cherries, 

Wishing  always  that  summer  would  stay. 


58  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RAN  GEL  AND 

Then  after  the  cows  in  the  evening, 
To  hurry  them  home  on  the  fly, 

Then  into  the  kitchen  and  cupboard 
For  a  hunk  of  that  old  pumpkin  pie. 

Then  up  in  the  morning  quite  early, 
To  milk  and  to  plant  out  some  seed; 

And  then  off  to  school  at  my  lessons. 
To  cipher,  to  study  and  read. 

When  noon  hoar  came  I  was  waiting 
And  started  right  off  on  the  fly 

To  locate  that  little  tin  bucket 

For  a  hunk  of  that  old  pumpkin  pie. 

Then  show  me  the  cheery  old  fireplace 
Where  father  and  mother  would  sit, 

Surrounded  with  happy,  bright  children 
In  a  home  which  contentment  had  fit. 

Gone  are  the  days  of  my  childhood, 
Gone  are  the  ones  I  loved  dear ; 

Yet  often  in  dreamland  I  meet  them 
And  fancy  them  standing  quite  near. 

Now  hurry  I  must  in  my  fancy, 

Till  I  meet  with  that  old  pumpkin  pie : 

Oh,  my,  how  I  truly  did  prize  it, 
Both  pleasing  to  taste  and  to  eye. 

Then  give  me  a  hope  of  the  future, 
And  teach  me  a  piece  of  a  rhyme. 

And  my  heart  overflowing  with  music 
Will  measure  away  at  the  time. 

Then  tenderly  point  to  the  pathway 
And  guide  me  away  from  the  wrong. 

And  let  me  press  forward  in  duty. 
Surrounded  with  childhood  and  song. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  59 

So  I'll  gather  the  flowers  of  childhood 
And  plant  them  to  grow  in  my  soul, 

To  fill  it  with  joy  and  with  sweetness? 
While  the  waves  of  adversity  roll. 

Yet  a  heavy,  sad  feeling  comes  o'er  me, 
And  you  know  I  have  almost  to  cry, 

As  I  fancy  I  see  in  that  cupboard 
A  hunk  of  that  old  pumpkin  pie. 


In  the  Bad  Lands. 


I  used  to  love  to  ramble  in  the  dreary  old  Bad  Lands, 
With  my  lasso  on  my  saddle-horn  and  my  rifle  in  my 

hand; 

I  was  a  Western  hunter  and  my  rifle  aim  was  true, 
I  could  chase  the  nimble  antelope  and  round  them  up 

for  you. 

I  had  a  buffalo  pony  and  he  seemed  to  love  my  gun, 
And  although  he  wasn't  very  fast  he  knew  how  it  was 

done; 

For  riding  or  for  chasing  was  as  fine  as  in  the  land, 
If  I  was  in  the  saddle  and  the  rein  was  in  my  hand. 

The  other  day  while  hunting  away  of  f  on  the  flat 
I  saw  a  nimble  antelope  and  flagged  him  with  my  hat ; 
I  shot  that  noble  creature  and  packed  him  into  camp, 
But  to  kill  a  graceful  antelope  I'll  vow  I  am  a  scamp. 


60  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 


He  Was  Going  Some  for  a  Preacher. 

I  put  my  hat  upon  my  head  and  walked  out  for  a  stroll, 
The  night  was  light,  the  moon  was  bright,  the  air  was 

crisp  and  cold; 
I  walked  out  to  a  stylish  church  in  the  western  part  of 

town, 
The  preacher  was  dressed  up  so  fine  he  could  not  well 

sit  down. 

The  preacher  was  a  gifted  one,  not  timid,  weak  or  shy, 
But  waded  in  with  all  his  might  to  make  good  angels  cry ; 
His  language  was  most  perfect,  too,  and  faultless  was 

his  coat, 
So  stood  he  there  upon  the  floor  and  praised  the  Lord 

by  note. 

The  sky  was  clear  and  cold  that  night  and  showed  no 

sign  of  storm, 
But  he  could  preach  of  hell  so  hot  it  sure  would  keep 

you  warm; 
Of  all  the  men  I  have  ever  heard  portraying  the  wicked's 

lot 
With  all  their  gifted  eloquence  could  paint  a  hell  so  hot. 

He  said  there  was  a  lake  of  fire,  a  seething,  burning  hell, 
Where  wicked  men  and  children,    too,     forever    more 

would  dwell; 
He  preached  eternal  seething  flames  and  hurled  them 

through  the  room, 
In  burning  coals  and  fiery  flames  he  cried  the  sinners' 

doom. 

Eternal  and  eternally  the  circling  flames  would  roll, 
To  torture  and  torment  the  lost,  the  weak  and  helpless 

soul; 
As  I  sat  there  a-thinking  some,  what  would  they  do  for 

him? 
The  devil  was  rejoicing  with  a  most  becoming  grin. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  61 

He  said  they  always  would  exist  within  that  burning 

flame, 
Ten  thousand  times  ten  thousand  years  to  torture  just 

the  same ; 
With  cries  of  pain  ascending  up  through  all  the  countless 

years, 
A  cruel  God,  a  heartless  wretch,  would  have  his  time  of 

tears. 

He  did  not  preach  the  love  of  God,  nor  from  the  Bible 

read, 
But  talked  of  fearful  punishment  dealt  out  to  the  wicked 

dead; 
All  through  the  vast  eternity  while  circling  years  shall 

roll 
The  flames  of  hell  will  surge  and  throb  upon  the  wicked 

soul. 

That  gifted  preacher,  too,  may  here  depart — depart  from 

me, 

The  heathen  and  the  harlot  shall  enter  before  thee ; 
You  have  not  taught  the  love  of  God,  but  spite,  revenge 

and  hate, 
While  the  people  for  salvation  did  hunger,  long  and  wait. 

I  think  the  worst  men  that  we  have  are  preachers 
worldly  wise, 

For  when  they  see  the  simple  truth  they  turn  away  their 
eyes; 

They'll  stamp  the  floor  and  make  a  fuss  and  preach  eter 
nal  fire, 

And  then  the  fair  and  supper  comes  to  pay  the  preacher's 
hire. 


62  RHYMES   FROM    THE  RANGELAND 

Hurrah  for  Old  Montana  Twenty  Years 

Ago. 
(Song.) 


I  want  to  tell  you,  Pardner, 

You  ride  a  shaky  horse 
When  you  leave  dear  old  Montana 

And  strike  out  another  course. 
It  is  the  one  great  rangeland 

That  now  is  up  to  date, 
Where  the  long-horned  steer  is  feeding 

In  the  Golden  Treasure  State. 

CHORUS : 

Then  hurrah   for  old   Montana, 
And  hurrah  for  you  and  me ! 

For  I'm  here  in  old  Montana, 
And  it's  here  I  want  to  be! 

You  may  go  down  to  Texas, 

Where  the  morning  glory  vine 
Is  a-twisting  and  a-twining 

Round  the  cypress  and  the  pine. 
But  the  doggies  they  get  ticky, 

And  they  die  upon  the  spot; 
There  they  pine  away  in  summer, 

And  the  winter's  just  as  hot. 

CHORUS : 

Then  hurrah   for  old   Montana, 
And  hurrah  for  you  and  me! 

For  I'm  here  in  old  Montana, 
And  it's  here  I  want  to  be ! 

You  can't  drive  up  to  Kansas 
On  the  old  Dodge  City  trail; 

There's  a  hundred  thousand  fences 
And  a  free  delivery  mail. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  63 

It  is  chickens  and  it's  turkeys. 

And  it's  scrawny,  weavily  wheat, 
And  the  farmer  with  his  whiskers 

Is  the  only  one  you  meet. 

CHORUS  : 

Then   hurrah    for  old    Montana, 

And  hurrah  for  you  and  me ! 
For  I'm  here  in  old  Montana, 

Just  where  I  want  to  be ! 

You  may  go  to  Colorado, 

But  you  cannot  get  a  show; 
In  the  summer  it  is  drouthy, 

In  the  winter  it  is  snow. 
And  the  only  place  that's  open, 

Where  a  Cowboy  now  can  rest, 
Is  the  range  of  old  Montana, 

The  fair  jewel  of  the  West. 

CHORUS : 

Then   hurrah   for  old   Montana, 

And  hurrah  for  you  and  me ! 
For  I'm  here  in  old  Montana, 

And  it's  here  I  want  to  be! 

You  may  go  east  to  Nebraska, 

But  she  hasn't  got  the  stuff; 
She's  divided,  cut  and  quartered, 

Every  sandhill,  smooth  or  rough. 
They  have  plenty  of  protection 

And  they're  asking  none  of  us, 
And  they're  reaping  now  this  harvest 

Of  feathers  and  of  fuss. 

CHORUS : 

Then  hurrah   for  old   Montana, 

And  hurrah  for  you  and  me! 
For  I'm  here  in  old  Montana, 

And  it's  here  I  want  to  be! 


64  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

Yes,  I'll  stay  in  old  Montana, 

Where  the  grass  is  rich  and  sweet, 
And  where  Nature  is  enchanting 

And  tumbling  round  your  feet. 
It's  the  only  range  that's  open, 

Where  a  puncher  now  can  rest, 
Is  the  range  of  old  Montana, 

The  fair  gem  of  all  the  West. 

CHORUS  : 

Then  hurrah   for  old   Montana, 
And  hurrah  for  you  and  me ! 

For  I'm  he.re  in  old  Montana, 
And  it's  here  I  want  to  be ! 

There's  no  place  like  Montana, 

She's  the  Bingen  on  the  Rhine; 
She's  a-dancing  and  a-prancing, 

And  a-coming  up  the  line. 
She's  a-standing  like  a  warrior, 

With  a  crown  upon  her  head, 
And  unwilling  to  be  numbered 

With  the  dying  and  the  dead. 

CHORUS  : 

Then   hurrah   for  old   Montana, 
And  hurrah  for  you  and  me ! 

For  I'm  here  in  old  Montana, 
And  it's  here  I  want  to  be! 

If  you  want  to  stay  in  Texas 

I  am  sure  you  have  the  right, 
But  if  you  go  to  Nebraska 

I  will  bid  you  all  goodnight. 
But  when  you  lay  me  out  to  rest, 

Beyond  this  Great  Divide, 
Plant  me  in  old  Montana, 

That's  sunny,  lone  and  wide. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  65 

CHORUS : 

Then   hurrah   for  old   Montana, 

And  hurrah  for  you  and  me ! 
For  I'm  here  in  old  Montana, 

And  it's  here  I  want  to  be! 


Lines  to  a  Prisoner. 


Look  up,  my  brother,  do  not  fear 
To  face  the  withering  blast, 

For  grated  doors  with  iron  bars 
Will  open  wide  at  last. 

These  dark  and  cruel  prison  walls 

Will  try  to  blot  our  name ; 
A  convict,  too,  so  I  am  told, 

Is  shadowed  deep  in  shame. 

But  prison  doors  and  clanking  chains 

Do  seldom  reach  the  spot, 
But  leave  behind  a  lasting  sting 

Which  cannot  be  forgot. 

So  let  us  now  a  lesson  learn 
From  those  who  wear  the  chain, 

And  try  to  act  a  soldier's  part 
And  try  to  feel  his  pain. 

May  he  who  made  the  brilliant  sun, 

The  golden  stars  to  shine, 
Just  man  your  heart  with  firm  resolve 

To  bear  and  not  repine. 


66  RHYMES   FROM    THE  RANGELAND 


A  Lonely  Grave  Out  West. 

Away  out  on  the  high  divide  between  the  Yellow 
stone  and  the  Stillwater  rivers  lies  sleeping  in  Mother 
Earth  the  remains  of  a  young  boy  about  14  or  15  years 
old,  who  was  killed  by  the  Indians  in  the  early  days  of 
Montana.  I  fixed  up  his  grave  with  stone  and  wrote 
the  following  verses  and  put  them  on  his  headstone : 

A  lonely  grave,  a  sacred  spot, 

On  the  old  Jim  Bridger  trail ; 
A  mother's  son  is  sleeping  here 

In  death  so  cold  and  pale. 

A  boy  of  rather  tender  years 

To  roam  so  far  away, 
Out  in  the  wild  and  woolly  West, 

Where  Indians  kill  and  slay. 

The  Red  Man  knows  his  resting  place. 

Their  arrows  reached  the  mark, 
And  here  he  lies  now  deep  in  dust, 

In  house  that's  cold  and  dark. 

He  died  alone  away  out  West, 

No  friends  to  weep  around ; 
The  Indians  in  their  thirst  for  blood 

Soon  shot  him  to  the  ground. 

Next  day  the  father,  in  his  grief, 

Laid  his  dead  boy  to  rest ; 
To  sleep  in  old  Montana  soil, 

The  gem  of  all  the  West. 

Not  in  the  city  of  the  dead 

He  fills  a  yawning  grave; 
But  a  lonely  one  away  out  West, 

Where  Western  winds  do  rave. 


fttt 


"A   Mother's  Son    is  Sleeping   Hen 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  67 

No  flowers  to  decorate  his  grave, 

No  history  writes  his  fame; 
But  I  will  place  a  bouquet  there 

In  honor  of  his  name. 

Now  should  you  pass  this  lonely  grave, 

Let  tender  thoughts  appear; 
For  you  shall  sleep  some  day  in  dust 

As  he  who  slumbers  here. 

We'll  leave  him  here  in  his  repose, 

Unconscious  of  his  rest; 
To  sleep  in  old  Montana  soil, 

The'  flower  of  the  W-est. 


To  the  Warden,  Deer  Lodge. 

Would  it  be  against  the  prison  rules 

To  send  these  verses  home  ? 
I'd  like  for  wife  to  call  to  mind 

The  fields  we  used  to  roam. 

Please  grant  this  small  request  to  me, 
And  send  them  down  the  line, 

And  you  shall  have  the  kind  regards 
Of  this  frail  heart  of  mine. 

I  have  with  you  a  small  account, 

So  charge  the  same  to  me ; 
Unjust  indeed  would  be  the  thought 

To  have  it  charged  to  thee. 


68  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 


That  Old  Sheepherder  Man. 


I  want  to  tell  you  where  I've  been, 

And  what  I've  seen  today, 
Away  out  West  upon  the  range 

Where  cattle  used  to  stay. 
I  saw  a  band  of  sheep,  old  Pard, 

I  saw  the  herder,  too, 
Come  driving  in  his  stinking  sheep, 

Just  like  all  herders  do. 

It  nearly  took  my  breath  away, 

I  had  to  stop  awhile ; 
And  then  that  crazy  herder  man 

Began  to  start  a  smile. 
I  could  not  well  control  my  bronk, 

And  he  began  to  pitch. 
And  fired  that  old  sheepherder  man 

Right  down  into  the  ditch. 

Old  Rattler  still  kept  going  high, 

The  sheep  began  to  scare ; 
The  shepherd  dog  began  to  wTork 

Upon  his  master's  hair. 
The  way  he  pulled  his  master  round 

Showed  well  the  dog  was  game ; 
You  bet  he  towed  this  herder  man 

Till  he  was  good  and  tame. 

You  ought  to  have  seen  this  herder  man 

In  mud  and  water  deep, 
A-prancing  and  a-dancing  round 

As  crazy  as  his  sheep. 
I  left  him  there  unto  his  fate, 

With  all  his  fuss  and  roar, 
And  never  saw  a  herder  man 

Turned  wrong  side  out  before. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  69 

I  went  next  day  back  to  this  place, 

The  birds  began  to  sing, 
The  cattle  feeding  on  the  hills 

Was  a  delightful  thing. 
But  sheep  and  herder  they  were  gone, 

H'ad  went  across  the  bridge 
Beyond  the  rocky  point  divide 

Across  the  stony  ridge. 

And  now  the  range  looks  good  to  me, 

No  sheep  nor  herder  there, 
And  cattle  on  a  thousand  hills. 

The  glorious  rangeland  share. 
Say  sheepman,  listen  now  to  me. 

Please  do  not  come  about, 
For  if  you  do  my  bucking  bronk 

Will  put  you  all  to  rout. 

I  hate  a  little  fenced-up  range 

Where  sheepmen  fuss  and  fight, 
But  where  it's  big  and  wild  and  free 

Therein  I  take  delight. 
A  thousand  miles  across  a  flat 

Gives  room  to  go  and  come, 
And  joy  to  meet  the  puncher  boys 

When  they  are  scattered  some. 

So  now  I'll  picket  out  my  horse 

Beneath  the  Western  sky. 
Where  stinking  sheep  and  herders,  too, 

Have  bid  the  range  goodbye. 
And  here  beside  this  old  cowtrail 

I'll  ride  and  laugh  and  grin, 
But  do  not  want  those  farmer  gents 

To  come  and  fence  me  in. 


70  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

Written  in  the  County  Jail  at  Big  Timber, 
Montana. 

(Song.) 


Come  all  you  Sweet  Grass  County  boys, 

Come  listen  to  my  rhyme ; 
We're  laying  in  Big  Timber  jail 

Because  accused  of  crime. 
We're  laying  in  Big  Timber  jail, 

And  surely  feel  the  curse. 
But  in  our  hearts  we're  thankful,  boys, 

That  things  ain't  any  worse. 

This  jail  outfit's  the  laziest  gang 

That  e'er  creation  reared ; 
They're  rather  small  of  caliber. 

Their  conscience  hard  and  seared. 
One  fire  a  day  is  what  we  get, 

In  weather  hot  or  cold, 
'Cause  the  sheriff  is  too  lazy,  boys. 

And  the  jailer  is  too  old. 

Jake  Lyons  is  the  turnkey  man. 

He  carries  grub  and  such ; 
He's  willing  to  do  all  he  can, 

But  that,  you,  know,  ain't  much. 
He  comes  down  every  morning  late. 

Stands  up  and  walks  around. 
As  if  he's  looking  for  a  wife 

And  can't  find  one  in  town. 

When  Jake  comes  from  the  boarding  house 

With  hot  coffee  in  the  can, 
We're  mighty  glad  to  know,  my  boys, 

That  Tucker  is  the  man 
Who  sends  us  such  good  things  to  eat, 

And  not  stuck  up,  you  know, 
Shall   some  day  wear  a  golden  crown 

In  a  way  that  won't  be  slow. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  71 

Now  Jake,  our  jailer's,  out  of  town, 

I  think  he's  gone  to  Nye ; 
Of  course  it  made  us  all  feel  bad, 

While  Jim  began  to  cry. 
And  while  he's  gone  we  mourn  for  him, 

The  pie  and  cake  don't  come; 
We  wish  that  he  would  hurry  back 

So  he  can  bring  us  some. 

I  hear  he's  gone  a-fishing,  boys, 

Way  up  to  Hawkes'  Hole, 
A-tantalizing  minnows  there 

With  his  long  old  fishing  pole. 
But  Jake  will  soon  be  back  again, 

When  fishing  days  are  o'er, 
And  bring  us  lots  of  pie  and  cake, 

As  he  has  done  before. 

Now  while  he's  gone  we're  feeling  bad, 

The  work  is  never  done, 
And  we  have  a  kick  a-coming,  boys, 

As  to  how  this  jail  is  run. 
We  hear  that  Jake  is  back  again, 

And  we're  thankful,  too,  for  that, 
For  when  we  get  a  streak  of  lean 

We'll  get  a  streak  of  fat. 

Say,  won't  you  kill  the  fatted  calf 

And  bring  us  some  to  eat? 
W7ith  ham  and  eggs  along  the  side — 

'T  would  be  a  perfect  treat. 
A  pullet,  too,  with  yellow  legs, 

A  turkey  good  and  ripe, 
Would  suit  us  poor  old  jailbirds, 

With  partridge,  quail  and  snipe. 

Although  we're  in  this  lonely  cell 

For  right  we  will  contend ; 
Don't  strike  us  with  your  fishing  pole 

Until  we  are  condemned. 


72  RHYMES   FROM    THE  RAN  GEL  AND 

And  when  we  get  our  liberty 
We  won't  forget  our  rhyme, 

Nor  we  won't  forget  our  turnkey  man 
In  the  good  old  summer  time. 

We  won't  forget  our  neighbor  boys 

For  their  friendship  in  the  past 
And  taking  just  another  chance, 

We  hope  it  still  may  last. 
And  when  we  swim  old  Jordan  stream, 

Cross  o'er  the  Great  Divide, 
We  hope  to  see  friend  Tucker  there 

A-standing  by  our  side. 


To  Ride  Away  Out  West. 

(Song.) 

Come  all  you  rambling  Cowboys  and  a  story  I  will  tell. 
Before  I  leave  old  Sweet  Grass  to  go  to  the  pen  to 

dwell. 

I  have  no  ill-bred  feelings  well  pent  up  in  my  breast, 
But  a  handshake  for  true-hearted  men  who  ride  away 

out  West. 

I  was  born  and  raised  in  the  Buckeye  state  and  never 

came  to  shame 

Till  I  left  my  dear  old  homestead  to  ride  upon  the  range; 
One  day  I  got  in  trouble,  boys,  and  it  was  very  queer, 
They  brought  a  bill  against  me  for  killing  Rhine's  steer. 

I  used  to  love  to  hunt  and  trap  out  in  the  Western  wilds, 
O'er  barren  plains  and  mountain  haunts  I've  roamed  for 

many  miles ; 

The  graceful  antelope  and  deer  I  used  to  get  with  ease — • 
Could  rope  the  wildest  broncho  and  ride  him  where  I 

pleased. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  73 

It's  away  down  in  the  nation,  boys,  T  know  well  all  the 

trail. 

And  away  across  Wyoming,  the  land  of  storm  and  hail ; 
With  a  roving  disposition,  that  would  never  let  me  rest, 
I  wandered  to  Montana,  boys,  to  roam  out  in  the  West. 

These  old  Montana  roundups  I  think  will  take  the  prize, 
They'll  call  you  in  the  morning  with  the  starlight  in  the 

sky; 

They  will  start  you  on  a  circle  full  forty  miles  away, 
And  you  are  mighty  lucky  if  you  get  two  meals  a  day. 

It's  here  I  met  a  Southern  boy,  from  the  old  Texas  state, 

A  Cowboy  by  profession,  which  I  will  now  relate; 

He  had  settled  on  a  little  home,  with  his  dear  wife  and 

child. 
To  follow  the  long-horned  steer  around  in  the  Montana 

wilds. 

'T  was  on  a  cold  December  day,  just  a  little  after  noon, 
We  rounded  up  a  bunch  of  steers  and  rounded  them  quite 

soon ; 

We  drove  them  to  a  coolie,  a  beef  to  kill  that  day, 
But  Jim  he  made  a  blundering  shot  to  only  wound  a 

stray. 

The  sheriff  and  his  deputy  just  happened  to  be  near, 
And  in  a  very  little  while  to  us  they  did  appear; 
And  when  they  both  before  us  stood  I  never  shall  forget 
The  feelings  at  that  moment,  boys,  revives  within  me  yet. 

They  took  us  to  Big  Timber  jail  and  there  behind  the 

bars 
For  nearly  four  long  dreary  months  we  never  roamed 

afar; 

So  now  we  are  in  shackles,  boys,  I'm  willing  to  admit, 
They  say  that  we  are  guilty,  but  they  haven't  proved 

it  yet. 


74  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

They  put  our  bonds  so  very  high  we  could  not  meet  the 

sum, 
And  one  who  could  fill  all  demands  would  sure  be  going 

some; 

Thirty-six  hundred,  I  am  told,  is  just  a  little  queer 
To  bond  a  man  behind  the  bars  for  killing  of  a  steer. 

The  sheriff  and  his  deputy  they  did  not  do  us  right. 
They  said  I  was  an  outlaw  and  I  would  always  fight ; 
They  said  to  take  a  hundred  men  and  stand  them  line  in 

line, 
And  let  them  pick  a   fighting  man  they'd  pick  Beggs 

every  time. 

Of  course,  a  bad  report  like  this  may  send  me  o'er  the 

road, 

And  drive  me  to  a  prison  pen  when  no  resistance  showed ; 
But  if  I  have  to  wear  the  stripes  and  make  a  prison  hand 
You'll  never  hear  me  fret  or  \vhine — I  still  shall  be  a 

man. 

You  ought  to  have  seen  that  jury,  boys,  sheepherders  I 

express, 

A-pacing  up  to  the  jury  seats  in  their  Norwegian  dress; 
While  each  one  had  his  mind  made  up,  the  seed  already 

sowed, 
To  turn  the  old-time  Cowboy  down  and  send  him  o'er 

the  road. 

But  there  was  Lawyer  Barbour,  a  man  of  low  degree, 
Who  stood  before  that  jury,  boys,  to  stamp  his  hate  on 

me; 

And  there  was  R.  R.  Purcell,  who  I  cannot  well  forget, 
He  was  the  blackest  of  them  all — I  think  I  hear  him  yet. 

Thus  spread  the  great  R.  R.  Purcell  like  a  cyclone  o'er 

the  skies, 
He  made  the  courtroom  ring  aloud  with  falsehoods  and 

with  lies ; 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  75 

Out  spoke  this  shallow-hearted  cur,  his  language  freely 

flowed, 
"Now  all  you  noble  jury  boys,  come  send  them  o'er  the 

road." 

He  said  up  at  the  old  stockade  I  had  no  house  nor  hut, 
I  had  no  barn  or  fences  made  and  hence  no  gate  to  shut ; 
This  was  the  great  R.  R.  Purcell,  who  in  Helena  resides, 
Enough,  my  boys,  to  shock  my  heart  and  I  sought  my 
blush  to  hide. 

The  foreman  of  my  jury,  boys,  Louis  Guthrie  was  his 

name, 
A  sheepman  with  the  wool  all  on  and  both  hands  in  the 

game; 

He  said  he  was  a  juryman  and  to  court  he  sure  would  go 
To  send  them  to  a  prison  pen  in  a  way  to  not  be  slow. 

The  jury  quickly  hastened,  boys,  its  verdict  for  to  give, 
They  thought  the  old-time  Cowboy  was  hardly  fit  to  live ; 
That  jury  found  me  guilty,  boys,  Judge  Henry  sentenced 

me 
To  labor  hard  for  five  long  years  in  the  penitentiary. 

The  sheepmen  and  the  cattlemen  have  had  a  dreadful 
time 

And  human  gore  has  freely  flowed  throughout  this  West 
ern  clime; 

But  the  sheep  have  got  the  range  today,  the  herder's  got 
the  grippe, 

Just  as  they  had  long  years  ago  away  down  in  the  Strip. 


76  RHYMES   FROM    THE  RANGELAND 


The  Gems  of  Old  Montana. 


'Cause  we  live  here  in  Montana 
People  really  think  we're  tough : 

We  are  just  as  good  as  they  are, 
We  are  diamonds  in  the  rough. 

We  are  the  kind  of  diamonds 

That  will  ease  your  troubled  breast- 

The  gems  of  old  Montana, 
The  pride  of  all  the  West. 

Here  Montana  sage  is  plenty, 
So  are  rattlesnakes  and  ticks ; 

Here  we  sell  the  short-horn  feeder. 
But  we  sell  no  gilded  bricks. 

When  the  weather's  dry  and  dusty 
Our  crops  all  grow  the  best, 

In  the  soil  of  old  Montana, 
The  pride  of  all  the  West. 

Don't  leave  the  land  of  plenty. 
Where  happiness  is  found, 

But  stay  here  in  Montana, 

Where  they  have  a  heap  of  ground. 

You  may  drive  a  splendid  carriage, 
By  your  side  a  handsome  wife, 

And  board  at  the  penitentiary 
A  great  share  of  your  life. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  77 


Indians'  Story  of  Ouster's  Last  Battle. 

The  Indians'  story  of  Custer's  fight  has  never  been  told 
in  full, 

Nor  the  massacre  of  all  his  men  by  the  braves  of  Sitting 
Bull; 

It  was  in  the  Big  Horn  country,  in  the  year  of  seventy- 
six, 

On  the  twenty-fifth  day  of  June,  no  other  date  we  fix. 

Custer  left  Fort  Abraham  Lincoln  in  the  spring  of  seven 
ty-six 

And  with  the  Indians  on  the  warpath  he  expected  soon 
to  mix; 

He  had  six  hundred  cavalry  men  and  every  one  was 
strong, 

And  some  four  hundred  infantry  to  Custer  did  belong. 

You  know  it  is  a  part  of  life's  great  mystery  of  fate 
That  keeps  men  ever  pressing  on  until  it  is  too  late ; 
From  weaker  ones  we  often  hear  a  story  deep  in  shame, 
Or  from  the  dark  night  of  the  past  a  star  leads  forth  to 
fame. 

And  so  it  was  with  Custer — no  turning  back  he  knew — 
Till  Death's  cold  silent  shadows  o'er  the  Little  Big  Horn 

threw ; 

Brave  Custer  had  no  ironclad  rule  to  overthrow  a  foe, 
But  when  in  sight  of  the  enemy  he  straight  for  them 

would  go. 

We  will  hear  the  Indians'  story  of  Custer's  last  great 

fight 

On  the  Little  Big  Horn  river,  the  bloody  Sioux  delight ; 
There  were  little  chiefs  and  big  chiefs  and  the  braves  of 

many  moons, 
Rough  pictures,  too,  of  Indian  life  to  mark  the  soldiers' 

tombs. 


78  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

My  people,  said  old  Sitting  Bull,  were  starved  from  off 
their  land, 

And  driven  from  their  hunting  grounds  toward  the  bar 
ren  sand ; 

There  was  no  game  for  them  to  hunt,  no  food  for  them 
to  eat, 

Our  freedom,  too,  was  taken  away  bound  to  the  white 
man's  feet. 


The  white  man,  said  old  Sitting  Bull,  had  drove  us  far 

away 
And  still  they  kept  on  pushing  us  and  driving  us  each 

day; 

And  then  to  fix  and  finish  us  they  sent  the  boys  in  blue, 
Of  course  we  had  to  fight  them,  and  we  fought  the  battle 

through. 


Custer  came  to  fight  us  and  we  brought  our  warriors  up, 
And  we  called  our  braves  together,  and  we  filled  their 

bitter  cup; 
Brave  Yellow  Hair    had    many    soldiers — he,  too,   had 

many  guns — 
While  we  had  many  warriors  with  the  braves  of  many 

suns. 


My  people  they  heap  frightened,  they  did  not  want  to  die, 
The  Father  he  heap  angry,  his  wrath  reach  way  up  high ; 
My  people  were  in  trouble  and  had  much  talk  where 

to  go, 
While  heap  scout  like  the  eagles  followed  Custer  high 

and  low. 


We  did  not  want  to  fight  them,  for  Custer  was  much 

brave, 
We  did  not  want  to  torture  them  or  send  them  to  their 

grave : 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    FERSES  79 

Brave  Yellow  Hair  a  mighty  chief,  and  he  no  'fraid  to 

fight, 
But  he  still  keep  on  a-pushing  us,  and  we  did  not  think 

it  right. 

On  the  twenty-fifth  day  of  June,  late  in  the  afternoon, 
We  saw  the  soldiers  on  the  hills,  and  we  made  ready 

soon; 
Brave  Yellow  Hair  was  in  the  lead  with  frenzied  terror 

smiled, 
While  hard  he  spurred  his  reeking  horse  to  reach  the 

Injuns  wild. 

Red  Horse,  a  mighty  Injun  chief,  saw  Custer  swiftly 

coming, 
'T  was  then  we  called  our  warriors  up,  and  they  came 

fast  and  running; 
Rain-in-the-Face,  a  noted  chief,  was  the  one  who  led  the 

braves 
And  charged  them  down  on  Custer's  crew  and  left  them 

for  their  graves. 

We  gave  the  mighty  warwhoop  as  we  rushed  upon  our 

prey, 
And  we  fought  the  last  great  battle,  and  we  fought  it 

there  that  day ; 
There  was  long  and  bloody  fighting  and  many  braves 

were  killed, 
And  the  river  it  ran  bloody  where  the  life  blood  had  been 

spilled. 

Here  on  the  Little  Big  Horn  was  Custer's  last  great 

fight, 
Surrounded  with  savage  redskins,  on  the  left  and  on  the 

right ; 

Rain-in-the-Face  was  in  the  lead  to  do  his  very  best, 
And  Gall  was  pushing  in  the  rear  to  meet  him  from  the 

west. 


80  RHYMES   FROM    THE  RAN  GEL  AND 

While  Bear  and  Red  Horse  fought  fearful  there  that  day, 
And  thick  on  the   Little   Big  Horn   did  the  dead  and 

dying  lay — 
Red  Wolf  and  Kicking  Horse,  they  both  fought  long  and 

well, 
With  Sitting  Bull  close  by  their  side  where  Custer  fought 

and  fell. 

With  that  last  great  battle  over  and  hundred,  too,  had 
bled, 

The  redskins  rushed  upon  the  scene  to  cut  and  scalp  the 
dead; 

But  did  not  touch  brave  Yellow  Hair,  they  honored  him 
with  might, 

For  he  was  much  brave  Yellow  Hair,  and  he  would  al 
ways  fight. 

No  more  will  those  wild  savage  braves  ride  o'er  the  West 
ern  plains,  , 

For  Sitting  Bull  at  Wounded  Knee  now  \vith  the  dead 
remains ; 

And  now  no  more  brave  Yellow  Hair  on  Indian  trails 
will  ride, 

For  in  eighteen  hundred  and  seventy-six  he  crossed  the 
Great  Divide. 

Upon  that  bloody  battlefield  a  costly  marble  stands. 
To  mark  the  last  long  resting  place  of  heroes  great  and 

grand ; 
No  more  they'll  hear  the  bugle  call,  or  yet  the  muffled 

drum, 
But  will  answer  to  the  roll  call  when  the  judgment  day 

has  come. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  81 


We  Have  Them  All  at  Deer  Lodge. 

Talk  about  insurance  agents, 

With  their  cunning  little  schemes, 
They  loom  up  here  at  Deer  Lodge 

Like  shadows  over  streams. 
We  have  the  biggest  rascals  here 

That  ever  forged  a  check, 
A-boarding  at  this  prison  pen— 

They  got  it  in  the  neck. 

I  will  tell  you  how  they  do  it, 

And  they  do  it,  too,  with  ease, 
Just  as  easy  as  a  fakir  man 

Can  play  his  game  of  peas. 
They  wrill  drive  out  to  your  dwelling 

With  a  spanking  team  of  bays; 
They  are  grafting  on  a  grafter's  plan, 

A  graft  that  always  pays. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Stebbins, 

I  have  called  around  to  see 
If  I  could  write  you  out  today 

A  life-long  policy." 
And  he  talks  so  very  smoothly 

While  the  other  rubs  it  in, 
And  they  tickle  the  old  farmer 

And  he  soon  begins  to  grin. 

Now  they  tell  a  funny  story 

And  it  has  a  funny  ring. 
They  are  working  on  the  farmer 

Just  to  do  the  funny  thing. 
Now  they  have  the  farmer  moving 

And  a-coming  up  the  stream, 
And  the  agents  they  are  tickled 

Till  they  almost  have  to  scream. 


82  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RAN  GEL  AND 

But  they  come  to  some  conclusion, 

An  agreement  soon  is  reached, 
And  the  farmer  is  a-blooming, 

But  he  soon  begins  to  screech. 
When  he  finds  that  they  have  worked  him 

Well,  it  isn't  any  sport, 
For  the  agents  now  have  got  him 

Where  the  hair  is  rather  short. 

They  have  wrote  him  up  a  policy 

A-covering  life  and  death, 
To  be  payable  the  morning 

Of  the  day  he  lost  his  breath. 
Now  the  papers  are  completed 

And  you'll  hear  the  farmer  squeal, 
As  they  lather  him  all  over 

Just  to  shave  him  to  the  heels. 

Soon  the  children  they  get  tickled, 

And  their  mother  she  did,  too, 
And  when  everybody's  tickled 

Why,  it  is  a  tickled  crew. 
And  when  everybody's  tickled 

Why,  of  course,  it  tickles  you, 
But  the  agents  they  were  tickled. 

And  tickled  through  and  through. 

Old  Sorgum  started  laughing, 

And  he  laughed  a  rolling  gait, 
And  he  never  stopped  a-laughing, 

So  he  laughed  till  middling  late. 
As  he  thought  of  all  the  suckers 

Who  were  willing  to  be  caught 
Caused  a  feeling  at  his  throatway 

Like  a  flapjack  when  it's  hot. 

Oh,  the  different  kinds  of  people 

This  old  world  can  show  up, 
The  wolf  in  his  sheep  clothing 

And  the  drunkard  with  his  cup. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  S3 

We  have  them  all  at  Deer  Lodge, 

The  walls  are  high  and  strong, 
The  farmer  with  his  whiskers 

And  the  agent  with  his  song. 

They  are  sitting  here  with  stripes  on, 

A-musing  on  the  past; 
They  wish  they  hadn't  done  it, 

But  the  musing  long  will  last. 
Oh,  this  world's  a  curious  outfit, 

With  its  honey  and  its  gall, 
With  its  cares  and  its  caresses — 

It's  a  great  world  after  all. 

Now  you  horny-fisted  farmers 

Let  me  say  to  you  a  word, 
If  you  want  to  keep  your  hay  seed, 

Your  horses  and  your  herd, 
Just  be  a  little  skittish 

In  believing  all  you  hear, 
For  those  agents  tell  some  whoppers 

And  they  sound  a  little  queer. 

Now  you  old  potato  raisers, 

Who  have  always  took  the  prize, 
A-raising  big  potatoes 

With  ninety-seven  eyes, 
Let  the  smart  insurance  agents 

With  their  cute  and  funny  ways, 
Work  the  hills  and  wooded  valleys 

Where  no  human  maverick  stays. 


84  RHYMES   FROM    THE  RANGELAND 


A  Notice  on  the  Lone  Cabin  on  Bridger 

Creek. 


Well,  boys,  I  have  the  cabin  done, 

But  the  fellow  isn't  here; 
But  when  the  grass  starts  on  the  hills 

I  think  he  will  appear. 
So  I  will  measure  off  the  land 

And  set  the  corner  stakes, 
And  try  to  whistle  up  a  tune 

For  the  ranch  on  Bridger  Brakes. 

A  mansard  roof  is  very  good, 

But  a  boxcar  roof  is  better, 
But  what's  the  use  for  either  one 

If  the  weather  is  no  wetter? 
Here's  plenty  of  good  water,  boys, 

To  quench  your  thirsty  pains ; 
Walk  over  to  the  spring  out  there 

Or  wait  until  it  rains. 

Not  many  women  folks  about 

And  things  are  looking  glum — 
You  had  better  get  a  hustle  on 

And  get  to  going  some. 
Who  told  you  you  could  read  this? 

Say,  what  are  you  about  ? 
Only  twelve  miles  to  Whiting's  store. 

Does  your  mother  know  you're  out? 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  85 


When  the  Bronk  Begins  to  Bawl. 

It  is  out  here  in  Montana,  which  we  call  the  treasure 
state, 

Where  we  raise  the  bucking  broncho,  with  the  Cowboy 
up  to  date; 

Where  the  rich,  nutritious  grasses  gives  them  muscle, 
strength  and  nerve 

To  go  up  high  and  crooked  and  make  the  proper  curve ; 

Where  we  have  the  best  of  riders — some  are  short  and 
some  are  tall — 

But  there's  always  something  doing  when  the  bronk  be 
gins  to  bawl. 

It  is  out  here  in  Montana,  in  the  wild  and  woolly  West, 
Where  the  bronk  grows  to  perfection  and  the  Cowboy's 

at  his  best ; 
From  the  murky  picturesque  Yellowstone  away  up  to  the 

line 
You  will  find  those  pitching  bronchos  and  Cowboys  in 

their  prime; 
From  mountain,  plain  and  valley  they  will  answer  to  the 

call 
To  show  you  something  funny  when  the  bronk  begins 

to  bawl. 

You  may  gather  in  your  punchers,  you  may  call  them  all 

by  name, 

And  every  one  will  answer  with  a  record  of  his  fame; 
They  will  tell  you  they  are  twisters  from  the  little  town 

of  Fisk, 
And  can  ride  the  twisting  bronchos,  no  matter  how  they 

twist ; 
But  the  dust  cloud  rolling  yonder  says  there's  going  to  be 

a  squall, 
And  some  gent  will  find  a  landing  when  the  bronk  begins 

to  bawl. 


80  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

You  may  be  a  gallant  rider  and  can  turn  your  broncho 

loose 
While  he  jumps  and  springs  and  wiggles  like  a  little  mad 

cayuse ; 

You  may  wear  your  broad  sombreros  and  your  dark  An 
gora  schapps, 
Or   your   little    Sunday    duster,    or    your    heavy    winter 

wraps ; 
You  may  have  a  dandy  outfit — saddle,  bridle,  cinch  and 

ail- 
But  something  will  be  doing  when  the  bronk  begins  to 
bawl. 

When  the  rider  goes  to  shaking,  turning  pale  around  the 

gills, 

Just  as  little  Annie  Sagar  does  with  Oklahoma  chills; 
When  his  grip  begins  to  loosen  and  his  strength  begins 

to  go 
There  is   not  a  bit  of  danger  he  will   pocket  up  your 

dough ; 
When  he's  left  the  royal  palace  and  is  looking  sick  and 

small 
The  horse  will  drop  his  baggage  when  the  bronk  begins 

to  bawl. 

When  the  bronk  has  gone  a-fishing  somewhere  up  in  a 
cloud, 

And  is  coming  like  a  thunderbolt  and  feeling  mighty 
proud, 

You  may  have  a  pair  of  rollers  as  large  as  motor  wheels, 

With  shanks  as  long  and  ugly  as  a  fork  of  crooked  steel ; 

You  must  be  a  twister  twisting  with  a  large  amount  of 
gall, 

For  there's  always  something  doing  when  the  bronk  be 
gins  to  bawl. 

It  is  out  here  in  Montana,  in  the  wild  and  woolly  West, 
Where  the  bronk  can  shake  a  diamond  or  the  buttons 
from  your  vest; 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  87 

When  you  saddle  up  an  outlaw,  I  would  have  you  all  to 

know. 

That  safety  is  some  distance  off  and  danger  close  below ; 
So  I  warn  you,  gentle  fellow,  if  you  be  short  or  tall, 
There's  always  something  doing  when  the  bronk  begins 

to  bawl. 

When  the  bronk  goes  off  prospecting  twenty  feet  at  every 

jump, 

Skylarking  way  up  yonder,  looking  for  a  place  to  dump ; 
When  he  grunts   and  groans  and   quivers    like  a  ship 

caught  in  a  storm, 
When  his  eyes  are  big  and  bulging  and  his  breath  is 

mighty  warm ; 

It  is  then  some  reckless  puncher  will  answer  to  his  call 
And  the  saddle  drop  its  baggage  when  the  bronk  begins 

to  bawl. 


How  Are  You  Fixed  for  Straw? 


Reuben  was  an  odd  genius  in  his  makeup,  in  his 
talk  and  even  in  his  walk. 

Reuben  come  to  visit  us 

From  where  he  used  to  roam ; 
Boarding  now  at  Deer  Lodge, 

Far  away  from  home. 
For  Reuben  swiped  a  saddle, 

And  forgot  to  swipe  the  horse; 
Sent  him  up  to  Deer  Lodge — 

Got  a  year,  of  course. 

He  says  he  took  a  chance  once, 

Got  a  solid  year; 
It  looks  mighty  funny 

And  it  looks  mighty  queer. 


RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

Won't  take  another  chance. 

Shan't  break  a  law  ; 
Hello  there,  calfman, 

How  are  you  fixed  for  straw  ? 

Reuben  gets  up  early 

With  an  easy  going  smile, 
Nothing  strange  about  it, 

Only  Reuben's  style. 
In  he  goes  to  breakfast, 

And  at  once  begins  to  chaw; 
Hello  there,  calfman. 

How  are  you  fixed  for  straw  ? 

He  goes  from  the  table, 

Using  high  falutin  slang, 
Out  upon  the  sidewalk 

Down  he  goes  kerbang. 
Sidewalk's  mighty  icy, 

Didn't  think  I'd  fall, 
Just  went  down  a-squabbling — 

Guess  I  got  it  all. 

He  goes  to  the  loafing  shack, 

Looking  sorter  glum ; 
Starts  up  a  little  game, 

Gets  to  going  some. 
Divy  to  the  jackpot. 

Something  I  can  chaw ; 
Hello  there,  calfman. 

How  are  you  fixed  for  straw  ? 

Reuben  goes  to  dinner. 

Slim  around  the  girt : 
Comes  out  from  dinner 

Looking  like  he's  hurt. 
I  want  to  trade  my  jackknife. 

A  peach  without  a  flaw ; 
Hello  there,  calfman, 

How  are  you  fixed  for  straw? 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  89 

Reuben  got  his  nose  peeled, 

But  he  can't  tell  how, 
A-playing  with  the  greyhound 

Or  fooling  with  the  cow. 
Reuben's  up  against  it, 

Just  as  sure  as  you  are  born ; 
Snow  flakes  and  sunshine 

Driving  up  a  storm. 

Reuben  goes  to  breakfast, 

Flapjacks  mighty  hot; 
Going  to  fill  your  pockets  ? 

Guess  you  better  not. 
Reuben  starts  a-singing, 

Hurray  and  hurrah ; 
Hello  there,  calfman, 

How  are  you  fixed  for  straw  ? 

See  Reuben  coming 

With  his  section  boss  gait; 
He  wants  to  get  married 

And  is  looking  for  a  mate. 
He  has  a  little  sweetheart 

Down  in  Arkansas ; 
Hello  there,  calfman. 

How  are  you  fixed  for  straw? 

He  comes  from  the  loafing  shack 

A-looking  mighty  fine, 
His  heart  a-beating  tenor 

And  his  feet  a-keeping  time. 
I'm  going  out  tomorrow, 

And  here's  to  you  my  paw; 
Hello  there,  calfman, 

How  are  you  fixed  for  straw  ? 


SO  RHYMES    FROM    THE   RANGELAND 


The  Old  Slop  Mule  at  Deer  Lodge. 

I  am  a  good  old  working  mule, 

But  my  life's  been  very  hard, 
For  twenty  years  I've  hauled  the  slop 

Away  from  this  old  yard. 
Some  years  ago  the  stripes  went  off 

And  then  went  on  the  brown; 
They  made  a  trusty  mule  of  me, 

To  haul  the  slop  from  town. 

It's  hard  to  be  a  little  mule, 

And  work  in  harness  so ; 
The  heavier  is  the  load  I  have. 

The  faster  I  must  go. 
The  cart  is  such  a  heavy  thing. 

And  my  harness  they  are,  too ; 
They  have  to  keep  my  collar  tight 

To  keep  from  pulling  through. 

Of  drivers  I  have  had  a  few, 

A  dozen,  more  or  less ; 
Jim  Doodle  is  my  driver  now, 

A  bum  one,  too,  I  guess. 
And  when  my  load  is  tough  to  pull, 

He'll  kick  me  hard  and  shout, 
And  when  the  ladies  come  around 

He  always  bawls  me  out. 

I've  served  them  well  for  twenty  years, 

And  done  the  best  of  work; 
No  matter  how  they  loaded  me, 

I  never  played  the  shirk. 
But  now  when  old  and  stiffened  up 

They  drive  me  with  a  stick ; 
But  I  will  show  that  Dutchman  yet 

This  mule  is  pretty  slick. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  91 

He  jerks  me  by  the  bridle  bit 

Until  my  mouth  is  sore, 
And  when  I  toss  my  head  with  pain 

He  always  gives  me  more. 
The  way  I'll  fix  that  Dutchman  yet 

You  need  not  have  a  doubt ; 
I  hate  to  have  that  driver  man 

To  always  bawl  me  out. 

One  day  to  show  how  mean  he  was, 

He  hit  me  with  a  scoop; 
And  then  I  overturned  the  cart 

And  spilled  out  all  the  soup. 
The  hog  warden  come  a-butting  in 

And  hit  me  with  a  club; 
Just  then  I  sent  a  lifter  out — 

He  landed  in  the  tub. 

They  loaded  me  with  slop  one  day, 

And  handled  me  quite  rough ; 
I  did  not  like  to  have  to  haul 

And  smell  that  horrid  stuff. 
I  started  them  a-going  some, 

A  gait  I  couldn't  stop; 
And  run  the  cart  into  the  creek 

And  spilled  out  all  the  slop. 

They  worked  me  over,  too,  I  guess, 

But  it  was  all  the  same; 
The  old  mule  had  his  dander  up, 

And  he  was  out  for  game. 
And  while  they  fished  the  old  cart  out, 

I  stood  so  good  and  still ; 
They  also  got  the  barrels  again, 

But  had  to  leave  the  swill. 

But  convict  labor  it  is  cheap 

And  of  the  poorest  grade; 
But  I'm  a  mule  that  was  brought  up 

A-hmnmer  to  my  trade. 


RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

My  heels  can  run  a  fanning  mill, 
My  mouth  can  sing  a  tune; 

I'll  round  that  Dutch  hog  warden  up 
And  feed  him  with  a  spoon. 

I'm  all  right  now  and  feeling  fine 

To  knock  that  Dutchman  out, 
To  chase  him  round  the  opera  house 

And  hear  the  ladies  shout. 
Look  out  for  me,  I'm  coming  now, 

I'm  on  the  highway  route; 
I  want  to  meet  that  Dutchman  now 

And  hear  him  bawl  me  out. 

I've  done  that  Dutch  hog  warden  up, 

He  had  it  in  for  me; 
I  only  hit  him  with  my  breath, 

And  made  him  blind,  you  see. 
Two  Dutchmen  left  the  burning  deck, 

And  both  were  looking  wise; 
The  old  mule  got  his  dander  up 

And  blackened  both  their  eyes. 

Those  Dutchmen  now  are  very  sick, 

And  looking  awful  pale; 
They  thought  to  make  a  tool  of  me, 

In  this  they  both  did  fail. 
For  if  you  treat  a  mule  that  way 

He'll  practice  with  his  feet, 
And  just  as  sure  as  you're  alive 

He's  laying  for  your  meat. 

So  now  I'm  done,  I've  had  my  tear, 

And  laid  two  Dutchmen  low ; 
Will  kindly  bow  my  head  to  you, 

With  measure,  beat  and  slow. 
For  some  day  they  will  haul  me  off 

Upon  the  boneyard  route, 
Where  all  the  Dutchmen  in  the  world 

Will  never  bawl  me  out. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  93 

Malugian  at  Great  Falls  Goes  to  the  Cir 
cus  and  Tries  to  Ride  a  Trick  Mule. 


Well,  wife,  I've  landed  here  at  last,  and  the  town  it  looks 

all  right, 
The  streets  are  wide  and  handsome  and   fills  me  with 

delight ; 
There's  about  five  thousand  houses,  I'm  giving  now  a 

guess, 
Many  of  them  two  stories  high,  and  some  are  more  or 

less. 

I  went  out  the  other  day,  dear  wife,  to  take  in  all  the 

sights, 
I  walked  along  quite  proudly,  too,  I  guess  I  have  the 

right ; 

I  walked  out  to  the  city  park,  and  then  and  there  I  found 
To  my  perfect  satisfaction  that  a  show  had  come  to  town. 

So  I  steered  right  straight  for  the  circus,  and  the  elephant 

he  was  out, 
The  people  they  went  nearly  wild,  you  ought  to  have 

heard  them  shout; 

The  parade  it  started  early,  and  it  surely  was  immense, 
It  reached  from  the  Park  hotel,  dear  wife,  out  to  Lick 

Brindle's  fence. 

I  was  bound  to  see  the  elephant,  but  they  had  stretched  a 

rope,  you  see, 
And  while  looking  for  Mr.  Elephant,  Mr.  Elephant  he 

found  me ; 
He  turned  me  two  and  twenty  and  whirled  me  round  and 

round, 
And  left  three  hundred  pounds  of  flesh  just  piled  upon 

the  ground. 


94  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

Well,  the  people  they  just  hooted  me,  you  ought  to  have 

heard  them  laugh, 
They  said  old  'Lugian's  cow  has  broke    her    neck    and 

nearly  killed  her  calf; 
I  tell  you,  dear  wife,  I  felt  the  shame,  I  can't  tell  you 

just  how, 
I  think  the  people  mixed  me  up  with  my  old  brindle  cow. 

But  soon  I  gathered  up  myself  and  from  that  scene  did 

hie, 
And  pulled  my  red  bandanner  out  and  wiped  my  bloody 

eye; 

I  walked  a  furious,  swaggling  gait  and  trying  hard  to  go. 
And  heard  the  ladies  laugh  and  say,  "Old  'Lugian  ain't 

so  slow." 

Well,   I  crawled  into  the  circus  and   I  saw  the  merry 

clown, 

The  funniest  of  the  funny  men  that  ever  came  to  town ; 
He  had  a  great  big  striped  suit,  spotted  red  and  yellow, 
And  when  he  would  unwind  himself  you  know  I  had  to 

bellow. 

Roar  after  roar  of  laughter  went  around  that  circus  ring, 
And  when  she'd  grow  a  little  weak  they'd  give  her  an 
other  fling; 

The  funny  clown  in  funny  dress  then  sung  a  funny  song 
'Bout  his  little  blue-eyed  sweetheart,  who  he  called  his 
Lucy  Long. 

He  sung  it,  oh,  so  nice,  dear  wife,  I  wish  you  had  been 

there, 
It  brought  to  mind  old  courting  days,  when  you  were 

young  and  fair; 
When  we  ran  a  race  together  and  you  beat  me  from  the 

start, 
When  you  threw  your  arms  around  me  and  called  me 

your  sweetheart. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  95 

Then   soon  they  brought  a  mule,   dear  wife,   into  that 

circus  ring, 
And  asked  for  a  man  with  nerve  enough  to  ride  that 

ornery  thing ; 
I  hollered  out,   "Here,  I'm  your  chap,   I've  seen  some 

mules  before," 
Not  thinking  of  his  treacherous  soul,  nor  of  the  other 

shore. 

I  just  jumped  from  off  my  chair  and  started  for  that 

mule, 
And  heard  the  people  laugh  and  say,  "Malugian's  an  old 

fool ;" 
I  took  a  glance  around  the  ring  and  seen  the  hoodlums 

grin, 
Then  I  just  scooted  up  my  sleeves  and  boldly  waded  in. 

You  know  when  I  was  young,  dear  wife,  I  was  limber 

as  an  eel, 
But  still  there's  mettle  enough  in  me  to  make  that  critter 

squeal ; 

I  said  I'd  ride  that  ornery  mule  or  learn  him  a  new  trick, 
And  if  I  couldn't  break  him  in  I'd  make  him  awful  sick. 

I  landed  quick  upon  his  back,  the  people  shouted,  "Go!" 
The  ladies  clapped  their  hands  and  said,  "Old  'Lugian 

ain't  so  slow ;" 
I  grabbed  him  by  his  stubby  tail,  threw  both  legs  round 

his  neck, 
And  bravely  there  I  stayed  with  him  like  the  boy  on  the 

burning  deck. 

Hie  went  around  that  circus  ring  as  hard  as  he  could 

hump, 

A-making  twenty  feet  or  more  at  nearly  every  jump; 
Then  soon  he  changed  his  method  quick,  but  found  it 

wouldn't  work, 
And  went  up  yonder  thirty  feet  and  came  down  with  a 

jerk. 


96  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

He  made  another  fearful  jump,  my  eyes  rolled  out  afar, 
It  seemed  I  almost  then  could  see  the  gates  that  stand 

ajar; 
Then  down  he  came  all  doubled  up,  his  head  between 

each  leg, 
But  I  was  still  a-staying  there  a-playing  mumblypeg. 

Then  up  again  into  the  air  he  circled,  churned  and  twist, 
But  spurred  him  with  my  old  brogans  and  fanned  him 

with  my  fist; 
Then  gently  he  descended  like,  and  to  earth  again  did 

shoot, 
For  he  had  been  away  up  there  like  an  airship  on  a  toot. 

His  eyes  seemed  now  to  be  of  fire,  his  heels  seemed  full 

of  danger, 
For  he  had  on  his  back,  you  know,  three  hundred  pounds 

of  stranger; 
Then  I  soon  began  to  wonder  how  he  could  hold  out  so 

long. 
And  found  that  he  was  yet  wound  up  for  fifteen  hours' 

strong. 

He  seemed  to  go  asleep  awhile,  then  made  another  lark, 
And  flashed  around  that  circus  ring  like  lightning  after 

dark; 
And  then  away  from  earth  he  went  a-twisting  through 

the  skies, 
I  said  farewell,  old  circus  ring,  and  wiped  my  weeping 

eyes. 

When   we   got  back  to  the   circus   ring,   there  nothing 

looked  the  same, 

My  pardner  he  had  lost  his  tail  and  I  soon  lost  my  name ; 
The  mule  got  back  that  very  day  with  eyeballs  big  and 

wide, 
He  landed  in  the  circus  ring,  but  I  away  outside. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  97 

I  gathered  up  myself,  dear  wife,  the  very  best  I  could, 
But  no  doubt  left  some  flesh  and  bones  in  the  place 

where  once  I  stood; 

For  when  I  started  off,  dear  wife,  I  did  a  wobbling  go, 
Then  noticed  I  had  lost  a  leg  and  part  of  my  big  toe. 

Now  all  you  Western  riders,  don't  come  up  against  a 

mule, 
For  if  you  do  some  day  you'll  rue,  and  you  will  be  the 

fool; 
That  mule  has  all  his  meanness  yet ;  yes,  meaner  than 

before, 
While  big  Malugian,  the  old  cow,  will  ride  the  mule  no 

more. 


On  Mount  Powell,  Montana. 

We  climbed  Mt.  Powell's  rocky  slope 

Till  on  its  topmost  crag, 
We  stood  and  looked  from  it  afar 

Beyond  the  sagebrush  sag. 

Away  beyond  this  great  divide 
Are  mountains  deep  with  snow, 

To  water  well  the  fruitful  fields 
That  nestle  close  below. 

It's  here  they  rear  their  lofty  herds 
Unchanged  by  time  or  fate,   . 

Bold  and  defiant  here  they  stand 
In  this  great  treasure  state. 

Whenever  I  leave  this  prison  house 

I'll  have  within  my  breast 
Rich  peace  and  love  a-dwelling  there 

That  gives  eternal  rest. 


98  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 


The  Boys  at  Billings. 


Talk  about  your  pitching  horses, 

Your  saddles  and  corrals, 
But  the  Billings  boys  can  ride  them 

To  a  sweet  and  long  farewell. 

It's  out  across  the  Yellowstone, 
Two  miles  from  Billings  flat, 

You'll  find  the  Conway  old  corral 
And  all  the  boys  thereat. 

Jack  Herford,  he  is  in  the  swim, 
With  Lowther,  too,  his  chum, 

And  Hayden  George  is  twisting  bronks 
And  isn't  on  the  bum. 

There  is  Lanky  Jack,  the  wrangler, 
From  somewhere  in  the  state, 

He  swings  into  the  saddle 
And  rides  them  all  first-rate. 

He  may  pull  a  little  leather, 
And  the  pulling  not  be  slow, 

But  he'll  fan  them  with  his  quirt 
And  ride  them  for  the  dough. 

There's  Albert  Caton,  you  all  know, 

He  saddled  up  a  bronk, 
And  when  he  got  the  saddle  on 

He  soon  began  to  romp. 

He  quickly  danced  an  Irish  jig, 

Then  shot  into  the  air, 
Turned  over  before  he  hit  the  ground, 

But  landed  square  and  fair. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  1>9 

But  soon  again  he  took  a  start, 

And  bucked  toward  the  sun, 
He  met  some  others  coming-  down, 

But  dodged  them  one  by  one. 

The  way  he  smashed  that  saddle  up 

Showed  well  the  bronk  was  game, 
But  Albert  kept  the  old  hull  on 

And  rode  him  just  the  same. 

If  you  think  the  Billings  boys  can't  ride 

Just  come  and  watch  them  try, 
They  give  an  exhibition  free 

Beneath  the  earth  and  sky. 

There's  Wesley  Cagle,  the  old  boy, 

You  never  hear  him  squeal, 
But  pours  the  music  from  his  throat 

When  he  puts  to  the  steel. 

He  rides  them  in  a  circle, 

Or  he  rides  them  in  a  line, 
And  he  plays  his  rolling  prodders 

Till  the  bronk  goes  fine. 

There's  George  Clark,  a  Billings  boy, 

A  twister  true  to  name; 
When  Georgie's  cinch  is  fastened  tight 

No  broncho  gets  the  game. 

He  keeps  his  spurs  a-digging 

And  his  quirt  a-keeping  time, 
And  he  rides  Sir  Mr.  Broncho 

Till  the  stars  begin  to  shine. 

Goodb)^e,  my  boys,  I've  had  my  say, 

Now  I  must  jump  the  fence, 
For  I've  wrote  my  paper  up 

And  found  I've  just  commenced. 


100  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 


Farewell,  Titanic,  Proud  Ship  of  the  Sea. 


Gone  is  the  great  Titanic,  gone  to  the  home  of  the  brave, 
Gone  are  the  sixteen  hundred,  down  to  a  watery  grave ; 
Gone  are  the  kind  and  the  loving  under  the  blue  sea 

foam, 
Gone  from'  the  mansion  and  palace  never  again  to  roam. 

Husbands  and  wives  now  parting,  never  again  to  meet, 
Mothers  and  sons  now  drifting,  never  again  to  greet; 
Gone  are  the  brave  and  daring,  down  into  the  deep  blue 

sea, 
Gone  from  the  home-loving  circle  and  sad  is  their  fate 

to  me. 

Men  thought  this  great  modern  vessel  could  never  be 

wrecked, 
She  was  large,  strong  and  powerful,  and  most  beautifully 

decked ; 
In  luxury,  in  speed  and  in    comfort    she  was    all  that 

could  be, 
But  she  could  not  contend  with  the  troops  of  the  sea. 

With  scarcely  a  warning  they  sank  down  to  their  rest, 
Like  a  group  of  brave    warriors    with  a  star  on  their 

breast : 
They  had  heaps  of  great  treasures,  but  the  summons  had 

come. 
Their  journey  now  ended  and  their  life's  work  was  done. 

In  no  grave  made  with  hands  could  those  brave  heroes 

sleep, 

But  out  with  the  seaweeds  in  the  midst  of  the  deep; 
With  no  earth  to  its  earth,  and  no  dust  to  its  dust, 
'Neath  the  foam  of  old  ocean  they  must  sleep  to  His 

trust. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  101 

But  of  all  the  brave  women  in  that  ocean-tossed  crew 
There  were  none  quite  so  brave,  there  were  none  quite 

so  true, 
As  Mrs.  Isador  Straus,  clinging  fast  to  her  husband  till 

death  did  them  part, 
Being  true,  brave  and  loyal  to  the  last  throb  of  her  heart. 

Oh,  how  feeble  are  the  genius  of  frail,  fleeting  men 
'Gainst  the  forces  of  nature  as  it  proved  to  be  then; 
Now  they  rest,  now  they  sleep  'neath  the  white-crested 

foam, 
With  no  clasp  on  their  casket  and  no  door  on  their  tomb. 

Farewell,  proud  Titanic,  farewell  now  to  thee, 
Thy  pride  has  been  humbled  by  the  troops  of  the  sea; 
Farewell  to  thy  brave  in  their  long,  dreamless  sleep, 
To  mingle  with  seaweeds  in  the  trough  of  the  deep. 


The  Knot  That  Hands  Have  Tied. 


When  love  goes  thumping  through  your  heart, 

With  its  great  sweep  and  swing, 
You  are  very  apt  to  tie  yourself 

To  a  most  worthless  thing. 

So,  to  you  I  come  on  friendly  terms 

And  ask  you  to  restrain 
That  current  of  magnetic  love 

That's  thumping  through  your  veins. 

And  be  sure  the  marriage  knot  is  made 

By  hearts  that's  true  and  tried, 
For  the  divorce  can  soon  undo 

The  knots  that  hands  have  tied. 

No  human  courts  will  feel  the  pain, 

No  human  hands  the  stain, 
But  there  upon  life's  record  sheet 

A  blot  will  long  remain. 


102  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 


The  Old  Stockade  Corral. 


There's  a  happy  time  a-coming 

For  the  old  stockade  corral, 
When  the  calf  is  up  a-sucking 

And  the  chickens  bust  the  shell. 
When  the  fire  is  just  a-popping 

And  the  coffee  smoking  hot, 
I  want  to  tell  you  fellows 

It's  a  regular  garden  spot. 

The  old  stockade's  exploding 

With  her  agriculturing  wealth. 
The  air  is  soft  and  balmy, 

Very  dry  and  full  of  health. 
But  the  wind  it  keeps  a-blowing 

Like  it  did  down  in  the  strip. 
And,  prairie  dogs  a-sneezing 

Like  they  all  have  got  the  grip. 

This  is  at  the  head  of  Bridger, 

Far  from  the  county  seat, 
Twenty  miles  from  Absarokee, 

A  town  that's  hard  to  beat ; 
Where  the  golden  stars  do  twinkle 

And  the  rattlesnake  abound, 
And  where  the  pitching  broncho 

At  the  old  stockade  is  found. 

There's  a  happy  time  a-coming, 

And  it's  coming  pretty  soon, 
A  warm  chinook  is  blowing 

And  has  kept  it  up  since  noon. 
It's  coming,  yes,  it's  coming, 

The  happy  time  of  spring, 
When  the  doves  will  be  all  mating 

And  the  whippoorwills  will  sing. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  103 

Soon  the  mountains  will  be  humming 

With  the  happy  song  of  spring, 
And  the  chickens  will  be  hatching 

In  that  incubator  thing. 
So  we'll  keep  the  fire  a-heating 

Till  the  eggs  begin  to  pop, 
And  their  little  wings  a-growing 

Till  their  big  enough  to  flop. 

The  old  stockade's  a-booming, 

All  we  lack  now  is  a  school, 
She  is  coming  to  the  front 

Like  the  Dutchman  on  the  mule. 
We'll  have  incubator  chickens 

And  hoppers  by  the  peck, 
If  we  only  had  a  railroad 

We  would  have  a  railroad  wreck. 

We  can  hear  the  dog  wolf  hollow 

In  the  foothills  for  his  mate, 
And  see  the  shy  kioolee 

When  the  day  is  getting  late. 
Cowboys  thick  and  plentiful, 

And  they  always  treat  you  well, 
And  everything  is  humming 

At  the  old  stockade  corral. 

Van  Sagendorf  is  coming  back, 

He's  as  fat  as  any  pig, 
His  horses,  too,  are  looking  well, 

Old  Sallie,  Sam  and  Nig. 
Jase  Jo  well,  too,  another  chum, 

I  think  I  hear  him  yell, 
And  we  all  meet  together 

At  the  old  stockade  corral. 

I'm  glad  that  Jim  is  coming  back 

And  rowing  up  the  tide, 
For  I  feel  sort  of  lonely  like 

Since  the  old  gray  pony  hied. 


104  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

But  had  he  only  lived  till  spring 

I  hardly  thing  he'd  died; 
So  now  I  have  no  circus  horse, 

I  only  have  his  hide. 

We  will  have  a  cowboy  picnic 

When  the  Fourth  it  comes  around, 
And  we'll  have  some  pitching-  bronchos 

That  will  shake  the  very  ground. 
The  tablecloth  for  dinner 

Will  be  white  as  any  sheet, 
And  the  fiddle  will  make  music 

For  the  cowboys'  willing  feet. 

We  will  whiten  up  the  cabin  floor 

And  rosin  up  the  bow. 
While  the  mavericks  join  the  roundup 

In  a  way  that  won't  be  slow. 
Cowboys  and  girls  a-dancing 

With  their  light  angora  schapps, 
And  grandma  sitting  grinning 

In  her  calico  and  wraps. 

The  old  stockade's  a  stunner, 

She  has  plenty  of  room  and  air, 
Plenty  of  good,  clear,  cold  water 

And  plenty  of  grass  to  spare. 
Of  course,  we  have  no  wonders 

Such  as  twenty-story  shacks, 
But  lots  of  bear  and  bobcats, 

And  sometimes  cougar  tracks. 

Here  we  have  no  city  beauties, 

Nor  we  have  no  city  crooks, 
But  we  have  a  great  plantation 

Like  you  read  about  in  books. 
Here  you  feel  a  joyful  gladness 

Like  a  mantle  wrap  your  soul. 
And  the  clouds  of  melancholy 

From  Despair's  dark  island  roll. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  105 

Here  the  bright  and  smiling-  sunrise 

Early  lightens  up  the  room 
And  drives  away  the  darkness 

When  a  soul  is  plunged  in  gloom. 
Here  we  have  no  pesky  agents, 

Nor  the  crazy  city  swell, 
But  we  have  just  prime  perfection 

At  the  old  stockade  corral. 

The  old  stockade  is  lovely 

In  the  good  old  summer  time, 
When  the  doggies  are  a-browsing 

'Mong  the  flowers  and  the  vines. 
So  come  along  cowpunchers, 

We  will  entertain  you  well 
With  good  eating  and  good  drinking 

At  the  old  stockade  corral. 


In  Those  Old  Round-Up  Days. 

(Song.) 


I  left  my  home  a  wandering  lad, 

And  bound  to  see  the  world, 
While  father  said,  "Oh,  Tommy  dear, 

Your  wandering  flag  unfurled, 
You  have  a  mother,  old  and  gray, 

A  father  good  and  kind ; 
Your  mother's  heart  will  break  for  you 

If  you  leave  her  behind." 

I  went  toward  the  setting  sun 

That  lights  the  evening  sky, 
My  heart  was  light,  my  eyes  were  bright, 

For  I  was  young  and  spry. 


106  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

I  saw  the  buffalo  on  the  plains, 

The  Red  Man  in  his  home, 
Twas  then  I  thought  of  mother  dear 

When  far  away  did  roam. 

In  this  wild  land  I  cast  my  lot 

With  the  roundup  and  the  range, 
And  here  I've  rode  and  here  I've  roamed, 

And  here  I've  seen  a  change. 
Today  the  range  is  all  fenced  up, 

Long  grass  no  longer  waves, 
And  the  poor  old  measly  locoed  sheep 

Feed  round  the  cowboy's  grave. 

1   found  the  boys  good  riders  there, 

And  the  bronchos  rather  rough, 
But  quick  and  limber  as  an  eel, 

And  made  of  Western  stuff. 
You  can  talk  about  gymnasium  clubs 

And  the;  athletic  exercise, 
But  give  me  a  bronk  for  the  real  old  stuff, 

And  the  dust  from  the  rangeland  flies. 

For  thirty  years  I've  rode  or  roamed 

O'er  mountain,  hill  and  plain, 
My  feet  have  trod  the  hunting  grounds 

Where  buffalo  have  been  slain. 
My  eyes  have  viewed  the  roundup  camp, 

Where  punchers  had  full  sway. 
And  many  a  bronk  would  buck  the  game 

In  those  old  roundup  days. 

I  now  extend  a  friendly  hand 

To  the  boy  of  long  ago, 
To  the  old  range  land  and  the  old  range  man 

When  the  roundup  wasn't  slow. 
I  now  take  off  my  Stetson  hat 

To  the  boys  of  then  and  now, 
To  the  old-time  days,  to  the  old-time  ways, 

To  the  long-horned  steer  and  cow. 


-viewed    the    roundup    camp." 


108  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RAN  GEL  AND 

Down  at  the  Alamo. 
(Song.) 


A  solemn  thought  comes  o'er  me, 

As  I  stand  gazing  round, 
To  think  that  I  have  wandered 

From  Texas'  sunny  ground. 
I  love  old  sunny  Texas 

And  the  days  of  long  ago, 
When  those  brave  heroes  fought  and  fell 

Down  at  the  Alamo. 

Away  down  on  the  Brazos, 

Where  burning  sands  are  deep, 
Away  down  there  at  Alamo 

The  dead  were  piled  in  heaps. 
Away  down  in  this  southland 

Sleep  the  men  of  long  ago, 
Who  fought  and  fell  so  bravely 

Down  at  the  Alamo. 

The  flowers  bloom  as  sweetly, 

The  grass  grows  just  as  green, 
And  in  memory  lives  those  noble  men 

Bright  as  a  silver  sheen. 
But  what  an  awful  change  has  been 

Since  the  days  of  long  ago 
Since  those  brave  heroes  fought  and  fell 

Dtown  at  the  Alamo. 

Long  years  ago  the  mustang 

Made  the  rangers'  fiery  steed, 
Where  once  the  shaggy  buffalo 

And  the  long-horned  steer  did  feed. 
Those  were  the  days  of  long  ago 

When  the  cowboy  then  could  ride 
With  elbow  room  to  swing  his  rope 

W'here  'twas  sunny,  lone  and  wide. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  109 

The  sands  of  time  are  running, 

The  years  go  quickly  by, 
Tomorrow  we'll  be  old  folk, 

Quite  ready  then  to  die. 
Then  when  our  earthly  spirit 

Returns  to  God  again, 
May  we  say,  Dear  Father,  judge  us, 

As  we  judged  our  fellowmen. 

The  Lone  Star  state  is  coming, 

Marching  right  up  to  the  front, 
Her  citizens  are  loyal, 

You  hear  no  whine  nor  grunt. 
"Come  down  and  live  among  us," 

She  whispers  soft  and  low, 
"You  will  find  a  hearty  welcome 

'Mongst  the  friends  of  Alamo." 

Yes,  friendship  still  is  dear  to  us, 

And  friendly  hands  the  same, 
With  friendly  ones  to  help  us  some 

While  bucking  at  life's  game. 
So  here's  to  the  state  of  Texas, 

To  the  men  of  long  ago, 
Who  fought  and  fell  in  battle 

Down  at  the  Alamo. 

I  love  the  state  of  Texas, 

She  fills  my  heart  with  pride, 
I  love  the  state  of  Texas, 

'Cause  she's  sunny,  lone  and  wide. 
I  love  her  sunlit  prairies, 

I  love  her  burning  sand, 
I  love  all  her  wide  border 

Out  to  the  Rio  Grande. 

Hurrah  for  sunny  Texas, 

Let  it  ring  from  sea  to  sea, 
For  it's  down  in  sunny  Texas 

Is  where  I  want  to  be. 


110  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

Hurrah  for  Sammie  Houston, 

A  man  that  wasn't  slow, 
And  hurrah  for  those  brave  heroes 

That  fell  at  Alamo. 


The  Cowboy's  Wild  Song  to  His  Herd. 


One  beautiful  night  when  the  moon  was  full, 

And  the  air  was  crisp  and  clear, 
A  cowboy  lay  on  the  starlit  plains 

And  thought  of  his  home  so  dear. 
He  thought  of  his  mother  he  loved  so  well, 

And  the  slumber  of  sleep  was  blurred, 
Not  a  sound  to  be  heard  but  those  of  the  night, 

As  he  sang  a  wild  song  to  his  herd. 

The  cattle  are  laying  so  quiet  and  still 

On  the  carpet  that  mantles  the  West, 
While  the  golden  lamps  from  the  sky  of  night 

Sing  peace  to  the  cowboy's  breast. 
Still  he  thinks  of  his  mother  in  the  far  away  land, 

And  his  thoughts  by  its  memory  are  stirred, 
And  he  sees  himself  back  to  the  old  home  again, 

As  he  sings  a  wild  song  to  his  herd. 

He  is  far  from  the  din  of  the  city  noise, 

Where  the  lamps  of  folly  do  shine, 
He  is  far  from  the  brawls  of  the  dives  of  sin 

And  the  flow  of  the  sparkling  wine. 
He  is  in  the  great  West  with  its  mantle  of  green, 

Where  his  neighbors  say  never  a  word, 
A  land  of  mirages,  mountains  and  plains, 

Where  the  cowboy  sings  low  to  his  herd. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  HI 


The  Rustler  Gets  the  Blame. 


There's  a  big  boy  up  on  Bridger, 
And  I  see  he's  made  a.  kick, 

He  speaks  about  some  rustlers, 
Who  of  late  are  very  slick. 

As  he  stands  in  his  old  cabin 
And  looks  out  upon  the  bluff, 

He;  says  the  weather  has  been  fine, 
But  now  it's  awful  rough. 

Now  he  steps  from  out  the  cabin, 
Views  the  archway  of  the  sky, 

And  he  sees  the  pesky  doggies 
Have  been  climbing  awful  high. 

Then  he  walks  back  in  his  cabin 
With  a  woe  begotten  frown— 

I  wish  that  bloomin'  critter 

Would  quit  roarin'  and  come  down. 

He's  been  up  there  a  week  or  more, 

His  mother  down  to  feed, 
But  I  never  will  go  after  him, 

He's  got  the  loco  weed. 

When  feed's  put  out  next  morning 

The  critter  still  is  there, 
And  the  other  hungry  doggies 

Gulping  down  its  little  share. 

Then  Fred  does  some  awful  thinking, 

Acts  though  about  to  cry, 
But  he  doomed  it  to  destruction, 

So  alas,  the  calf  must  die. 

This  is  the  way  in  many  a  case 
Where  the  rustler  gets  the  blame, 

Their  carcasses  grace  the  hilltop 
And  likewise  the  public  lane. 


112  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

Well  I've  said  enough,  I  guess, 
And  no  longer  will  detain, 

But  look  up  a  bloomin'  carcass, 
And  perhaps  it  will  explain. 

So  go  on,  put  up  your  cabin 
And  plant  your  garden  seed, 

And  drive  those  hungry  critters  down 
From  off  the  loco  weed. 


Getting  My  Old  Calf  Pants  Washed. 


I  send  you  in  my  old  calf  pants. 

The  only  ones  I've  got, 
For  three  long  months  I've  cherished  them 

Until  they  took  the  rot. 

Of  course  I  hate  to  send  them  in 
They  are  so  smooth  and  slick. 

They  cover  my  long,  limbering  shanks 
Where  on  the  calves  do  lick. 

I  think  the  guard  is  stuck  on  them, 

I  seen  him  give  the  wink, 
As  if  to  say  your  pants  are  stout — 

I  think  perhaps  they  stink. 

I  would  like  to  have  another  pair. 

But  I'll  not  ask  for  them, 
And  all  the  guards  with  one  accord 

To  this  will  say  amen. 

So  wash  them  clean,  take  off  the  smell, 
And  fix  them  where  they're  tore, 

And  send  them  out  to  me  again 
To  last  three  months  or  more. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  113 


Early  Days  of  the  Cherokee  Strip. 


These  verses  I  have  written  I  hope,  you  all  will  read, 
And  to  their  simple  story  I  trust  you  will  give  heed ; 
My  name  is  nothing  extra,  it  is  neither  Jim  nor  Joe, 
But  when  I  have  no  golddust  I  am  always  on  the  go. 

We  now  will  leave  the  thirsty  strip  for  twenty  days  or 

more, 

Go  to  the  state  of  Kansas,  where  we  have  been  before; 
We  have  lots  of  heat  and  sunshine,  but  it's  hard  to  live 

on  wind, 
I  see  the  boomers  of  the  Strip  are  getting  mighty  thin. 

The  Strip  has  got  the  measles  and  we'll  pull  out  for  the 

mumps, 
For  I  hate  to  see  poor  hungry  men  a-wrestling  with  the 

dumps  ; 
So  we'll  harness  up  the  dear  old  mules  and  go  off  on 

the  fly, 
For  when  we  leave  the  Strip,  you  know,  it's  root  hog  or 

die. 

We  have  lots  in  the  Strip  to  be  thankful  for,  you  bet, 
For  when  the  weather  isn't  hot  it's  mighty  cold  and  wet ; 
We  have  rattlesnakes  and  centipedes,  but  cannot  name 

the  rest, 
And  when  the  sun  shines  out  the  day  it  soon  goes  down 

the  west. 


But  we  are  coming  back  again  when  the  geese  begin  to 

flock, 
When  the  frost  is  on  the  pumpkin  and  the  fodder's  in 

the  shock; 


114  RHYMES   FROM    THE  RANGELAND 

We'll  tie  up  here  on  White  Horse  and  have  a  good  old 

time. 
Our   neighbors  are   so   far   apart   we   never   hear   them 

whine. 

But  when  we  do  get  home  again,  you  bet  we  will  be  glad, 

Where  the  sandburs  are  a-booming  and  the  wolves  are 
mighty  bad; 

We  will  whistle  for  the  monkeys  and  we'll  dance  a  jam 
boree, 

While  the  dog  has  got  the  opossum  and  the  coon  is  in 
the  tree. 

Oh,  the  crowing  of  the  roosters  and  the  barking  of  the 

dogs, 

And  the  hiking  of  the  rabbit  as  he  hikes  into  a  log; 
The  bawling  of  the  cattle  and  the  braying  of  the  mules, 
And  the  rattling  of  the  wagon  and  the  clinking1  of  the 

tools. 

It  sort  of  makes  us  boomers  feel  it  good  to  be  alive, 
And  can  watch  the  little  honey  bee  a-humming  to  her 

hive ; 
When  we  can  eat  our  dinners  with  an  appetite  that's 

great, 
And  can  get  away  with  supper  long  before  it's  very  late. 

Everything  is  booming  like  a  river  in  the  Spring, 
For  the  Strip  is  now  a-coming  and  a-trying  hard  to  sing ; 
The  yellow  spotted  pussy  cat  is  running  to  the  south, 
And  our  little  kids  have  got  a  running  at  the  mouth. 

Everything  is  moving  with  power,  love  and  will, 

For  the  Strip  has  got  its  sweetness  and  the  Strip  has  got 

its  swill ; 
See  them  coming  in  their  wagons  from  little  Eastern 

lanes, 
A-gallivanting  Westward  a-squabbling  for  the  game. 


Now  we  are  back  again,  and  thankful,  too,  for  that, 
Our  cattle  they  are  rustlers  and  are  getting  mighty  fat; 
The  ducks  are  all  good  swimmers,  but  the  creek  is  nearly 

dry, 
But  it's  big  pig  or  little  pig,  it's  root  hog  or  die. 

We  are  all  just  as  happy  as  an  Oklahoma  dream, 
O'r  a  monkey  in  the  kitchen  or  a  kitten  in  the  cream  ; 
Our  baby  is  a-grinning  like  a  woodchuck  on  a  rock, 
And  her  little  tongue  a-clickin'  like  a  tickin'  of  a  clock. 

Nature  is  a-trying  to  get  on  her  bran  new  dress, 

And  the  rolling  plains  a-shining  with  springtime  loveli 

ness; 

Oh,  I  tell  you  that  she's  spinning  like  a  pickaninny  top, 
And  our  tubi  of  joy  is  brimming  and  it  seems  about  to 

slop.  , 

Our  sorrow's  turned  to  gladness  and  our  gloom  is  put 

to  route, 

Our  joy  is  getting  deeper  and  our  faith  begins  to  sprout; 
The  prairie  dogs  are  barking  and  a-sneezing  with  the 


Oh,  I  tell  you  we  are  thankful  that  we  live  out  in  the 
Strip. 

Yes,  we  are  back  again  and  a-feeling  mighty  good, 

We   wouldn't   leave  the   Strip,   no,   we  wouldn't  if  we 

could  ; 
And  if  yt>u  want  to  call  a  while  and  sit  down  on  the 

floor, 
Remember  that  the  latch  string  hangs  outside  the  cabin 

door. 


116  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 


Stolen  Shoe  Strings. 


After  having-  my  shoestrings  stolen  out  of  my  shoes 
in  the  loafing  shack  I  wrote  the  following  verses  and  put 
them  up  where  all  could  read  them : 

NOTICE. 

There  is  a  thief,  a  sneaking  thief, 

A  shoestring  stealing  cur, 
Who  lays  around  this  loafing  shack 

To  steal  from  him  or  her. 

But  since  there  is  no  her  about 

I  think  it  must  be  him, 
But  say,  old  pard,  a  chance  to  ride. 

I  think  is  rather  slim. 

I  think  I'll  take  my  shoestrings  out 

And  put  my  shoes  away, 
For  if  I  don't  this  stealing  cur 

Will  steal  them  both  today. 

Bring  back  my  shoestrings  now,  old  pard, 

Or  I  may  rip  and  snort, 
And  you  may  reach  the  dark,  dark  hole 

They  have  at  this  resort. 


A  few  days  after  my  shoestrings  were  returned, 
hung  up  by  the  looking  glass,  with  the  following  verses 
from  someone,  "Begging  Beggs'  Pardon"  : 

"You  say  there  was  a  him  around 

And  that  there  was  no  her, 
And  that's  the  very  reason  why 

You  made  use  of  word  cur. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  117 

''Your  laces  they  were  taken 

In  an  idle  sort  of  way, 
And  because  I  had  use  for  them 

Was  the  reason  they  did  not  stay. 

"In  speaking  of  the  dungeon, 

Why,  it  seems  like  regular  sport, 
And  the  same  about  your  holler 

And  your  cheap  old  rip  and  snort. 

"Now  like  a  good  Samaritan 

I  bring  the  laces  back  to  you, 
And  hope  you  have  the  gumption 

To  acknowledge  favor,  too. 

"Your  pardon  to  me  I  hope  you  grant 
And  that  you  do  not  feel  offended, 

And  if  you  will  comply  with  this, 
Why,  then  my  labor  is  ended." 


In  reply  I  wrote  the  following  verses  and  hung  them 
up  in  the  same  place : 

PARDON    GRANTED. 

I  want  to  say  to  you,  dear  sir, 

When  I  was  in  despair, 
I  saw  upon  the  looking  glass 

Those  laces  hanging  there. 

My  heart  received  a  little  shock, 

Then  to  them  I  drew  near, 
And  from  their  perch  I  took  them  down, 

How  sweet  they  did  appear. 

Like  peach  buds  in  the  morning  dew, 

Or  roses  in  full  bloom; 
Those  verses  decked  with  old  shoestrings 

Soon  drove  away  my  gloom. 


118  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

Your  verses,  too,  well  set  to  rhyme, 
Like  the  fisher's  old  hornpipe; 

With  thanks  to  you  I'm  frank  to  say 
The  writer  is  no  snipe. 

The  reason  that  you  give,  old  pard, 

Is  an  unfailing  sign 
That  inhumanity  to  man 

In  human  hearts  recline. 

A  pardon,  yes,  I  grant  to  you 
With  honor  great  and  high, 

As  beautiful  as  the  rainbow, 
Transparent  as  the  sky. 

And  when  I  cross  old  Jordan  stream, 
Beyond  the  Great  Divide, 

I  hope  to  find  you  there,  old  pard, 
A-sitting  by  my  side. 


He  replied  by  writing  the  following  verses 

SHOE   LACES. 

"What  peculiar  things  do  happen 
From  a  little  sort  of  thing, 

And  bring  about  results 
Of  which  all  poets  sing. 

"Those  laces  were  a  godsend 

It  does  appear  to  me, 
For  now  it  has  me  started 

Writing  verses,  as  you  see. 

"I  may  not  be  proficient, 

But  hope  to  be  in  time, 
As  able  as  the  ablest 

To  make  my  verses  rhyme. 

"Anything  for  recreation, 
As  you  hear  some  people  say, 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  119 

Might  be  risky  in  some  instances, 
But  hardly  in  this  way. 

"To  meet  on  River  Jordan 

Would  make  my  bliss  complete, 
But  I  don't  know  what  St.  Peter 

Has  written  on  my  sheet. 

"My  fears  are  not  unusual, 

As  I  presume  you  know, 
For  I  doubt  if  we,  a  person, 

Can  tell  where  Spirits  go. 

"The  wedding  suit  I've  never  worn, 

But  think  some  day  I  may, 
If  I  can  find  the  proper  girl 

And  with  me  she  will  stay. 

"I  do  not  think  that  lace  shoes 

Are  the  proper  thing  to  wear, 
So  I  will  wear  the  rowells 

If  I  climb  the  golden  stair. 
Yours,  etc." 


I  replied  to  him  in  the  following  verses,  but  never 
got  any  reply.  I  never  found  out  who  it  was.  He  knew 
me,  but  I  did  not  know  him : 

SHOE  LACES. 

You  see,  old  pard,  dear  sir,  and  friend, 

Our  verses  come  and  go, 
Just  like  the  seed  that's  cast  abroad 

Which  we  poor  mortals  sow. 

I'm  glad  you  found  them  there,  old  pard, 

Above  that  looking  glass, 
Where  spicy  verse  with  shoestrings  old 

Entwined  the  little  mass. 


120  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

I  don't  know  who  you  are,  old  pard, 
I  can't  make  out  your  name, 

But  trust  that  you  shall  yet  walk  up 
The  gilded  path  of  fame. 

The  wedding  suit  I  spoke  about, 
And  the  one  no  wealth  can  buy, 

Is  the  one  which  gives  a  title 
To  the  mansion  in  the  sky. 

That's  the  one  \ve  both  should  strive  for 
In  this  world  of  want  and  woe, 

Where  the  devil  fires  the  furnace, 
And  his  work  is  never  slow. 

But  to  win  a  prize  like  this,  old  pard, 
Takes  courage,  faith  and  hope 

To  climb  the  ladder  round  by  round 
And  tug  upon  its  rope. 

To  be  a  bright  and  shining  light 
In  this  dark  world  of  sin, 

To  lift  a  fallen  brother  up 
While  hardened  devils  grin. 

May  ray  of  love  and  light  and  truth 

Along  your  path  be  seen, 
Till  God  points  out  a  resting  place 

Where  you  may  love  to  lean. 

We  seem  to  all  be  fastened  here 
With  selfish  cares  and  ties, 

But  prison  sorrow  cuts  a  string 
And  urges  us  to  rise. 

Goodbye,  dear  friend,  come  once  again 

And  visit  me  in  rhyme 
While  loitering  round  this  old  resort 

To  pass  away  the  time. 
Goodbye. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  121 


Naming  the  Baby. 


Put  on  your  brand  new  calico 

And  grease  my  Sunday  boots, 
And  climb  onto  the  wagon, 

For  we're  going  over  to  Tute's. 
I  have  just  been  down  to  Tutie's 

And  have  come  home  awful  quick, 
For  Tutie  named  the  baby, 

And  the  baby  now  is  sick. 

I'll  feed  the  mules  some  oats  and  eggs, 

Say  a  dozen,  two  or  three, 
And  you  shall  hold  the  whip,  dear  wife, 

The  ribbons  give  to  me. 
For  Tutie  named  the  baby, 

And  she  named  him  good  and  fine, 
Called  him  little  young  Joe  Lucifer 

John  Wesley  Stewart  Kime. 

Of  all  the  names  I've  read  about, 

In  poetry  or  prose. 
I  think  this  one  will  take  the  lead, 

And  surely  take  the  rose. 
I  tried  to  write  it  down,  dear  wife, 

But  goodness   what   a  time, 
To  write  little  young  Joe  Lucifer 

John  Wesley  Stewart  Kime. 

Although  I'm  middling  good  to  write 

I  couldn't  write  it  right, 
But  still  I  tried  and  tried  again, 

And  tried  with  all  my  might. 
Tutie  then  just  wrote  it  down, 

And  wrote  it  in  no  time, 
And  wrote  little  young*  Joe  Lucifer 

John  Wesley  Stewart  Kime. 


122  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

Talk  about  your  pretty  women 

And  your  fickle  minded  men, 
But  here's  a  name  that's  long  enough 

To  set  the  world  on  end. 
If  it  isn't  a  prize  taker 

You  can  have  that  pup  of  mine, 
It  is  little  young  Joe  Lucifer 

John  Wesley  Stewart  Kime. 

Our  mules  you  know  are  goers, 

Like  hubby  on  the  dock, 
We  are  hastening  now  to  Tutie's, 

We  are  traveling  by  the  clock. 
It  is  sure  a  rushing  business 

And  must  be  there  on  time 
To  see  little  young  Joe  Lucifer 

John  Wesley  Stewart  Kime. 

Oats  and  eggs  are  just  the  stuff 

For  bony  mules  I'm  sure, 
And  it  really  is  surprising 

What  a  drive  they  will  endure. 
Two  strong  miles  a  minute, 

Says  Paddy  on  the  Rhine, 
Will  catch  little  young  Joe  Lucifer 

John  Wesley  Stewart  Kime. 

We  are  turning  now  the  corner, 

We  are  hitting  hard  the  road, 
We  are  reaping  now  the  harvest 

That  we  long  ago  have  sowed. 
We  are  getting  there  like  Eli, 

And  getting  there  on  time, 
To  gaze  at  little  young  Joe  Lucifer 

John  Wesley  Stewart  Kime. 

Only  just  about  a  minute  more, 
And  isn't  that  first-rate  ? 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  123 

Now  Tutie  sees  us  coming 

And  is  standing  at  the  gate. 
Doesn't  she  look  happy  though? 

And  how  the  pate  does  shine 
Of  that  little  young  Joe  Lucifer 

John  Wesley  Stewart  Kime. 

His  little  pate  is  balder 

Than  the  top  of  Teton  Peaks, 
And  his  little  chin  in  sympathy 

With  the  dimples  in  his  cheeks. 
His  little  nose  and  eagle  eye 

Is  a  sure  and  certain  sign 
That  it's  little  young  Joe  Lucifer 

John  Wesley  Stewart  Kime. 

How  he  came  to  get  this  comic  name 

I'm  sure  I  cannot  tell, 
But  according  to  my  measurement 

It  is  six  foot  and  an  ell. 
But  Tutie  named  the  baby, 

And  she  named  him  good  and  fine, 
Called  him  little  young  Joe  Lucifer 

John  Wesley  Stewart  Kime. 


124  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RAN  GEL  AND 


The  Tar  Daubers  of  Shady  Bend,  Kansas. 


To  the  Shady  Bend  tar  daubers, 

Oh,  shame  upon  you  men, 
The  proper  place  for  you  to  land 

Will  be  inside  the  pen. 
Oh,  what  a  shocking  shame  it  was 

To  treat  a  lady  so, 
How  degrading  and  how  devilish, 

How  shameful  and  how  low. 

McNamaras  used  the  dynamite, 

The  Shady  Bend  the  tar, 
But  Justice  with  her  own  right  hand 

Has  swat  them  all  a  scar. 
A  prosecutor  rallied  forth 

And  hurried  to  the  field, 
He  cinched  the  guilty  triflers  up 

And  cinched  them  till  they  squealed. 

It's  hurrah  for  California, 

The  land  of  orange  bloom, 
Where  the  orchards  and  the  gardens 

Are  filled  with  sweet  perfume. 
But  pity  the  McNamara  boys, 

Who  in  the  pen  reside, 
And  where  so  many  men  drift  in 

To  cross  the  great  divide. 

It's  hurrah  for  sunny  Kansas, 

That  great  sunflower  state, 
But  shame  upon  tar  daubers 

Who  are  trembling  for  their  fate. 
Yes,  change  the  name  of  Shady  Bend 

And  scour  up  your  town, 
And  by  your  clean  and  spotless  lives 

May  live  your  scandal  down. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    J/ERSES  125 


A  Stampede  in  North  Dakota. 


Talk  about  your  milling  cattle  and    stampede    on  the 

plains, 
When  ever  a  critter  g'oing  like  a  southbound  lightning 

train, 
When  the  heavens  are  black  with    darkness,   frowning 

like  the  child  of  sin 

And  heavy  hailstones  falling  with  a  fierce,  terrific  wind. 
When  the  lightning  vivid  flashes  shows  up  an  angry  sky 
And  you  see  the  long-horned  cattle  going  past  you  on 

the  fly, 
When  the  peals  of  mighty  thunder  seems  to  shake  the 

very  dome, 
It  is  then  the  old  cowpuncher  lets  his  thoughts  drift  off 

to  home. 

When  horns  and  hoofs   are  clinking  you  have  hardly 

time  to  think, 
For  their  double-jointed  motions  are  like  skaters  on  a 

rink ; 
Fall  in  behind  the  outfit,   you  may  jump  or  swim  the 

streams, 
And  if  they  still  keep  running  you  may  find  them  in  your 

dreams. 

So  swing  into  the  saddle  with  your  slicker  buttoned  tight 
And  dodge  the  breakneck  bagger  holes  by  flashes  of  the 

light. 

And  if  you  ride  till  morning  I  will  bet  a  horse  you'll  eat 
An  oven  full  of  biscuits  and  a  whole  hind  leg  of  meat. 

It  was  up  in  North  Dakota  and  a-way  late  in  the  fall. 
We  had  a  lively  stampede  as  the  wind  set  up  a  squall ; 
They  belonged  to  Wadworths  Brothers  from'  the  little 

Missouri  range, 
And  they  ran   for  nearly   forty  miles  through  country 

rough  and  strange. 


126  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

They  started  east  at  Big  Square  Butte,   run  to  Knife 

River  Flats, 
Soaked  through  and  through,  with  steers  all  gone,  and 

cold  and  wet  as  rats, 
On  the  river  flat  we  lay  that  night  with  rain  a-pouring 

down, 
And  not  a  dry  thread  anywhere  about  us  could  be  found. 

"When  a  storm  comes  down  a-swooping  when  you're 

riding  on  the  plains 
And  the  chilly  damps  of  morning  starts  your  rheumatiz 

again, 

When  your  bones  ain't  got  no  marrow  and  your  stom 
ach's  empty,  too, 
And  there  ain't  no  smell  of  coffee  to  change  the  grey  to 

blue." 
When  you  shiver  to  the  marrow  as  you  crawl  from  out 

your  bed 
And  go  feeling  in  your  pockets  for  a  wrap  to  tie  your 

head. 
It  is  then  when  you're  at  breakfast  I  will  bet  a  horse 

you'll  eat 
An  oven  full  of  biscuits  and  a  whole  hind  leg  of  meat. 

"We  never  carry  old  forty  rods  in  bottles  old  or  new, 
For   us   fellows   on   the   ranges   know     what     tangleleg 

can  do : 
But  let  me  ask  one  question,  When  a  puncher  rides  all 

night, 
Keeping  track  of  running  cattle  with  the  lightning  for 

his  light," 
And  he's  sick  and   soaked  and   sleepy   riding    hard  all 

through  the  night, 
Would  you  grudge  the  poor  old  puncher  one  good  big 

honest  bite? 
Then  sit  him  down  to  breakfast  and  I'll  bet  a  horse  he'll 

eat 
An  oven  full  of  biscuit  and  a  whole  hind  leg  of  meat. 


'And  they  ran\  for  nearly  forty  miles  through  country   rough   and 

strange." 


127 

Well  you  see  those  cattle  grazing  near  the  top  of  that 
divide, 

They're  the  ones  we  punchers  rounded  after  forty  miles 
of  ride; 

And  a  wetter,  colder  outfit  you  never  yet  have  seen 

A-leaving  old  Knife  River  as  the  sun  began  to  gleam. 

But  I  guess  we'll  all  live  through  it,  and  our  old  cow- 
ponies,  too, 

But  I  have  not  yet  forgotten  how  those  long,  lean,  wild- 
eyed  doggies  flew; 

And  when  we  got  round  to  breakfast  I'll  bet  a  horse 
we  ate 

An  oven  full  of  biscuits  and  a  whole  hind  leg  of  meat. 

Where  storms  come  hard  and  swooping  I  have  roamed 

for  many  years, 
But  to  look  about  on  the  old-time  range,  it  almost  brings 

the  tears; 
For  the  sheep  have  eat  off  all  the  grass  till  bare  as  my 

old  boots, 
And  today  the  robbers  still  are  there  a-gnawing  at  the 

roots ; 
Yes,  they   still  keep  coming,   they  are    crossing    every 

bridge, 
And  the  stinking  old  range  robbers  cover  nearly  every 

ridge ; 
You  will  hear  the  sorghum  peelers  as  a  storm  upon  the 

ground 
When  the  crazy  old  sheepherder  with  his  stinking  sheep 

comes  round. 

Cowpunching  now  is  done  away  and  the  land  is  all  cor- 

raled, 
Bought  up  by  wealthy  sheepmen  and  fenced  to  a  fare- 

you-well : 
The  long-horned  steer  has  gone  away,  they  could  not 

stand  the  scent, 
They  crowded  in  their  stinking  sheep,  and  off  the  range 

thev  went. 


128  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

Well,  we've  had  our  time  of  riding  through  blizzard  and 

the  storm, 
So  I  guess  you'll  not  begrudge  us  a  smack  of  something 

warm; 
It  is  good,  hot,  smoking  biscuits,  and   I'll  bet  a  horse 

we'll  eat 
A  yard  of  apple  butter  with  a  whole  hind  leg  of  meat. 

Just  a  little  one-horse  roundup  is  all  we  have  today, 
While  cowpunchers  ride  the  grub  line  and  have  a  funny 

way ; 
But  I  guess  I'll  not  be  kickin',  she  is  off  with  me,  I'm 

done, 

For  I'm  like  an  old  cow  pony  that's  forgotten  how  to  run. 
I'll  trade  off  my  rope  and  saddle  and  give  my  gun  away 
And  go  down  to  old  Missouri,  and  there  I'll  live  and  stay, 
And  dream  of  the  old-time  cow  songs  and  the  ones  I  have 

forgot, 
Will  I  forget  you  then,  old  pard?     Well,  no,  I  reckon 

not. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  129 

When  Lillie  Roundup  Throws  Her  Rope. 


When  Lillie  Roundup  throws  her  rope 

She  casts  a  figure  four, 
As  it  goes  twirling  through  the  air 

For  thirty  feet  or  more; 
And  as  it  drops  around  the  steer 

It  is  an  amusing  sight, 
For  Lillie  with  both  feet  is  there 

A-sitting  taut  and  tight. 

The  estimation  of  herself 

In  her  own  eyes  are  great : 
She  says  she's  champion  roper, 

The  best  that's  in  the  state. 
Young  Lillie  is  a  pretty  girl 

With  wavy  light  brown  hair, 
As  beautiful  as  Pete  Pillman's  wife 

And  almost  twice  as  fair. 

"I  wish  I  had  a  swifter  horse," 

She  said  one  day  to  me, 
"Then  I  would  challenge  anyone 

No  matter  who  he'd  be. 
Bill  Dulin  has  a  dandy  horse, 

I  wish  that  he  was  mine, 
I  believe  that  I  could  rope  and  tie 

In  just  two  seconds'  time." 

"I  have  a  little  sorrel  out  there 

Somewhere  by  Buzzard  Butte, 
I'll  go  and  catch  him  up  tonight, 

A  cinch  that  he  will  suit. 
When  you  first  swing  in  the  saddle 

He  may  act  a  little  strange, 
But  say,  he's  a  real  'go  get  her' 

And  the  peach  of  all  the  range." 


130  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

"Thank  you,  old  pard,  I  wish  you  would 

And  have  him  in  on  time, 
And  I  will  practice  up  a  bit 

And  show  you  where  I  shine." 
That  night  the  little  sorrel  came  in, 

A  truly  noble  mount, 
But  when  he  made  a  prospect  trip 

He  made  it  quick  and  stout. 


The  little  sorrel  next  morning 

Was  brought  into  the  string, 
A-stepping  high  and  fancy 

To  the  tune  of  the  Highland  Fling. 
The  punchers  all  grew  anxious, 

As  all  good  punchers  do, 
And  Lillie  was  a-watching  them 

With  her  great  eyes  of  blue. 

When  everything  was  ready 

The  circus  then  began, 
Then  hurrah  for  Lillie  Roundup, 

Come  beat  her  if  you  can. 
She  walked  up  to  Mr.  Broncho 

Like  a  brave,  sweet  little  girl. 
Swung  herself  into  the  saddle 

As  the  bronk  began  to  whirl. 

Three  jumps,  five  jumps,  twenty,  more  or  less, 
Up  hill,  down  hill,  everywhere,  I  guess ; 

The  bronk  has  his  baggage,  Lillie  has  the  game, 
Five  dollars,  ten  dollars,  she  rides  him  all  the  same. 


Sunfish,  catfish,  always  on  his  feet, 

Wild  bronk,  merry  bronk,  pitching  is  complete; 
Long  winded,  double  jointed,  acrobatic  clown, 

Ten  dollars,  twenty  dollars,  plank  the:  money  down. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  131 

Little  bronk,  big  bronk,  turning  left  and  right, 
Thirty  jumps,  forty  jumps,  isn't  he  a  fright? 

Hairy  bronk,  wild  bronk,  Lillie's  doing  fine — 
Forty  jumps,  fifty  jumps,  riding  all  the  time. 

Side  step,  two  step,  but  can't  shake  her  off, 

Sixty  jumps,  seventy  jumps,  bronk  begins  to  cough; 

Lillie's  in  the  saddle,  the  reins  in  her  hand, 
Riding  Mr.  Broncho  just  to  beat  the  band. 

Bad  bronk,  mad  bronk,  ride  you  plum  to  death, 

Eighty  jumps,  ninety  jumps,  better  take  your  breath; 

Wobbly  bronk,  sick  bronk,  sides  begin  to  thump. 
All  in  and  called  in  and  can't  make  a  jump. 

Now  Lillie  Roundup  is  the  girl 

That  does  look  good  to  me, 
A  thousand  others  by  her  side, 

No  one  so  good  as  she. 
She  rode  that  pitching  broncho 

From  Besheba  unto  Dan, 
Hurrah  for  Lillie  Roundup, 

Come  beat  her  if  you  can. 

Now  Lillie  with  her  sunny  eyes, 

We  call  her  Lil  for  short, 
Is  just  the  sweetest  little  flower 

That  blooms  in  this  resort. 
And  bring  on  your  pitching  bronchos 

If  you  are  on  the  pike, 
And  little  Lillie  Roundup 

Will  ride  them  all  alike. 


132  RHYMES   FROM    THE  RANGELAND 


Montana,  the  Gem  of  the  West. 


I  will  sing  of  Montana,  the  gem  of  the  West, 

And  a  wonderful  story  relate; 
I  will  sing-  of  the  charms,  the  crops  and  the  soil 

Of  the  marvelous  great  Treasure  State. 
It's  a  wonderful  country,  surpassingly  fine, 

Where  the  hand  of  the  Master  doth  rest, 
Where  the  Angel  of  Peace  plants  the  flowers  of  love 

To  bloom  on  the  trail  of  the  West. 

Of  course  we  are  proud  of  this  great  Treasure  State, 

And  proud  of  her  mansions  and  spires; 
It  speaks  out  the  throbbings  of  our  frail  hearts 

And  fills  us  with  greater  desires. 
Here  dreams  of  the  future  will  come  and  will  play, 

And  around  your  old  hearthstone  will  rest, 
And  there  they  will  circle  around  and  around, 

Clinging  fast  to  the  core  of  your  breast. 

Here  the  cheery  old  sun  with  its  bright  shining  rays 

Warmly  kisses  Montana's  green  sod, 
And  whispers  a  message  to  you  and  to  me 

To  come  and  walk  under  His  rod. 
Here  long  grasses  wave  and  sweet  flowers  bloom 

'Midst  the  fragrance  of  sweet  scented  air. 
While  Nature  a  mantle  of  beauty  spreads  out 

To  drive  from  your  soul  every  care. 

Here  ditches  with  water  are  all  brimming  full 

To  water  the  green  growing  crops, 
And  fruit  trees  so  burdened  with  luscious  fruit 

Are  crying  aloud  for  some  props. 
The  wild  gooseberry  bushes  are  loaded 

With  fruit  that  is  perfect  and  large, 
Growing  down  by  the  creeks  and  the  gulleys 

Without  an  expense  or  a  charge. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    V ERSES  133 

Here  winding  old  cowtrails  are  hid  as  from  view, 

Creeping-  out  of  the  tall,  wavy  grass, 
And  swift  mountain  streams  so  pleasing  to  see 

Are  full  of  the  trout  and  the  bass. 
Here  uplands  are  rich  as  her  valleys, 

And  her  valleys  as  rich  as  the  Nile, 
And  the  big  bumper  crops  when  responding 

Spreads  over  your  face  a  great  smile. 

Here  sweetest  \vild  flowers  in  their  pretty  gay  dress 

In  bewildering  profusion  abound, 
While  lead,  iron  and  copper,  silver  and  gold 

Across  her  wide  border  is  found. 
Here  is  beautiful  scenery,  resplendent  and  grand, 

In  garments  of  purplei  and  green, 
Where  swift  brimming  rivers  go  tumbling  on 

Across  this  great  state  to  be  seen. 

Not  a  bronk  has  bucked  off  his  baggage 

In  order  to  try  and  explain, 
Not  a  cow  that  has  nipped  her  green  grasses 

But  is  waiting  to  do  so  again. 
Not  a  soul  who  has  trod  her  wide  border 

But  today  do  tenderly  yearn, 
Not  an  eye  that  has  viewed  her  green  valleys 

But  are  longing  again  to  return. 

To  spend  their  few  days,  seasons  or  years 

In  a  country  so  wonderfully  blest, 
Where  the  Angel  of  Peace  plants  the  flowers  of  love 

To  bloom  on  the  trail  of  the  West. 
Then  pass  to  their  rest  and  quiet  repose 

In  a  land  where  the  long  grasses  wave, 
To  sleep  under  skies  that  are  sunny  and  blue, 

In  an  earth  covered  casket,  a  sod  covered  grave. 

Montana,  Montana,  the  fairest  of  lands ! 

Montana,  the  bright  gem  of  the  West! 
Let  me  live  all  my  days  in  your  beautiful  land, 

Sup  thy  milk  and  thy  honey,  thou  are    dear    to    my 
breast. 


134  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

Give  me  home,  peace  and  plenty,  give  me  sunshine  and 
storm. 

While  I  in  thy  border  do  dwell ; 
Keep  the  gaunt  wolf  of  hunger  away  from  my  door, 

Then  to  all  other  regions  will  I  murmur  farewell. 

Look  across  her  wide  border,  see  her  cattle  and  sheep, 

That  feed  on  her  sweet,  juicy  grass; 
See  her  thousands  of  horses,  her  timber  fringed  streams, 

Alive  with  the  trout  and  the  bass. 
See  the  rotten  old  bones,  the  horns  and  the  hoofs, 

The  remains  of  that  great  buffalo  herd 
That  the  white  man  pursued  till  he  slaughtered  them  all, 

While  the  government  said  never  a  word. 

See  her  homes  and  her  cities,  her  girls  and  her  boys. 

Look  to  their  swing  and  their  sweep, 
Their  vim  and  their  vigor,  their  push  and  their  go 

And  the  rich,  golden  harvest  they  reap. 
Come  gather  her  honey,  come  sup  her  rich  milk, 

And  here  in  her  border  abide ; 
Come  fence  in  a  garden,  come  plant  out  a  tree, 

Come  be  a  light  and  a  guide. 

Sincerely  I  love  this  sweet  land  of  Montana, 

To  me  she's  the  climax  of  years, 
And  as  I  look  to  her  rainbow  of  promise 

I  smile  through  my  season  of  tears. 
Her  meadows  and  her  hills  are  the  greenest 

And  her  mountain  peaks  crested  with  snow ; 
She's  a  park  of  great  beauty,  charming  with  splendor. 

Spread  out  for  us  poor  creatures  below. 

My  soul  is  enraptured  as  I  view  the  fair  scene. 

So  charmingly  and  beautifully  dressed, 
And  of  all  the  great  states  of  the  Union 

Montana  is  the  one  I  love  best. 
It's  a  wonderful  country,  surpassingly  fine, 

Where  the  hand  of  the  Master  doth  rest. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  135 

Where  the  Angel  of  Peace  plants  the  flowers  of  love 
To  bloom  on  the  trail  of  the  West. 

Then  come  to  this  Eden  and  this  wonderland  see, 

Come  look  on  her  mountains  and  plains ; 
Her  seed  time  and  harvest  both  walk  hand  in  hand, 

While  cloudland  sends  down  her  good  rains. 
Come  gather  her  harvest,  come  eat  the  good  bread, 

Where  the  hand  of  the  Master  doth  rest; 
Come  fence  in  a  garden,  come  plant  out  a  tree, 

To  grow  in  the  gem  of  the  West. 


Drifting  Around. 

Perhaps  you  have  run  on  the  ranges  of  sin 

And  fed  where  the  pastures  were  dry, 
Perhaps  you  have  sat  in  the  scoffer's  great  seat 

While  the  old  gospel  rider  went  by. 

Perhaps  you  have  gone  all  the  days  of  your  life 
With  no  knowledge  of  God  and  His  love, 

Perhaps  you  have  turned  from  the  shadowless  light 
Streaming  down  through  the  archway  above. 

Perhaps  you  have  traveled  the  rough  mountains  of  sin 

And  rode  the  black  canyon  of  doubt, 
Perhaps  you  have  drifted  around  and  around 

Till  you're  puzzled  and  lost  on  the  route. 

But  why  should  you  dwell  in  the  dark  swamp  of  sin 

And  eat  the  sad  bread  of  despair, 
When  in  the  green  pastures  of  life  there  is  feed 

For  a  soul  that  is  famished  on  care. 

Then  why  sit  like  a  statue  so  lifeless  and  cold, 
With  your  hands  hanging  down  by  your  side, 

When  God  is  so  willing  to  lead  you  right  through 
To  a  land  where  you  long  may  abide  ? 


136  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

The  Wife  That  I  Loved  So  Well. 

(A  Song.) 


Across  the  hills  of  sorrow 

A  prisoner  toiled  one  day, 
He  had  felt  the  curse  of  Eden 

Since  ere  he'd  went  astray. 
He  felt  life's  burden  heavy 

And  his  spirit  was  depressed, 
In  rain  or  storm  or  sunshine 

His  mind  could  find  no  rest. 

He  thought  of  his  dear  old  mother 

And  the  wife  he  loved  so  well, 
He  thought  of  his  own  dear  children, 

What  a  story  of  life  would  tell. 
He  thought  how  his  friends  forsook  him 

When  the  day  of  trouble  came, 
How  they  left  him  there  in  prison 

To  cover  him  deep  with  shame. 

He  thought  of  life's  great  purpose 

And  how  it  had  passed  away, 
He  thought  of  his  old-time  sweetheart 

And  he  thought  of  his  wedding  day. 
He  thought  that  his  life  was  useless, 

Like  an  egg>  with  a  broken  shell, 
But  with  him  in  all  his  rovings 

Goes  the  wife  that  he  loved  so  well. 

I  know  my  days  are  numbered, 
For  I  feel  quite  frail  and  weak, 

And  I  would  like  to  see  my  sweetheart, 
And  I  want  .to  hear  her  speak. 

I  hate  with  loath  and  scorning 
The  doom  of  a  prison  cell. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    YERSES  137 

For  it  tore  from  my  own  bosom 
The  wife  that  I  loved  so  well. 

So  now  I'll  keep  on  roving 

Till  I  travel  this  world  all  round, 
And  I  think  of  her  as  often, 

As  often  as  the  sun  goes  down. 
For  I  know  my  years  are  wasted 

Like  the  strand  of  a  broken  thread, 
Feeling  void  of  all  ambitions, 

And  I  know  that  my  hope  is  dead. 

My  pleadings  were  most  tender, 

My  call  both  loud  and  long, 
But  the  echo  from  the  hilltops 

Brought  back  the  same  old  song. 
I  have  felt  the  wound  severely, 

And  have  felt  the  pain  most  sharp, 
And  I  feel  that  my  life  is  useless 

Like  a  string  on  a  broken  harp. 

The  needless  pain  I've  suffered 

And  the  lonely  nights  of  woe, 
I  hope  no  other  creature 

May  ever  undergo. 
For  years  I've  called  in  anguish, 

But  no  answer  is  returned, 
Like  a  dead  leaf  in  the  forest, 

Or  the  ashes  from  the  urn. 

I  wish  I  could  solve  the  problem, 

Oh,  won't  you  tell  me  how  ? 
For  I  love  the  flowers  of  friendship 

And  to  them  always  bow. 
My  hope  once  strong  as  an  anchor, 

But  now  it  has  been  slain, 
And  I  feel  the  hard,  cold  pressure 

Like  the  wind  through  a  broken  pane. 


138  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

Not  a  friend  on  this  old  planet, 

Not  a  child  I  can  call  my  own, 
Not  a  home  in  this  wide  valley, 

So  there's  nothing  to  do  but  roam. 
But  still  there's  a  consolation 

Coming  as  from  a  broken  shell, 
That  with  me  in  all  my  rovings 

Goes  the  wife  I  loved  so  well. 

Oh,  could  I  but  meet  my  darling 

Where  the  Western  sun  reclines, 
I  know  the  spark  would  brighten, 

I  know  that  the  fire  would  shine. 
Cursed  be  the  gate  of  a  prison, 

And  cursed  be  the  prison  cell, 
For  it  tore  from  my  own  bosom 

The  wife  that  I  loved  so  well. 

My  mother  in  the  churchyard 

Where  a  stone  of  marble  rears, 
My  wife  away  out  yonder 

And  her  children  in  their  tears. 
While  I,  a  lonely  pilgrim, 

Must  stem  both  storm  and  tide. 
But  I'll  meet  her  in  old  dreamland 

Till  I  cross  the  Great  Divide. 

But  across  the  hills  of  sorrow 

There  blooms  the  flower  of  peace. 
Where  I  see  the  wounded  gather 

And  I  see  them  get  relief. 
I  see  no  broken  heart  strings, 

I  see  no  teardrops  start, 
But  I  hear  the  sweetest  music 

Like  the  strains  from  David's  harp. 

As  a  flower  in  the  forest 
And  a  serpent  by  its  side, 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  139 

So  the  foes  of  man  are  lurking, 

His  footsteps  to  betide. 
Like  the  froth  and  foam  of  the  ocean, 

Or  a  river  underground. 
We  all  are  swiftly  hastening 

To  that  sod  covered  mound. 

The  springtime  brings  her  beauty 

And  the  winter  brings  her  sleet, 
So  death  is  surely  coming 

To  give  me  rest  that's  sweet. 
Oh,  could  I  only  meet  her 

Before  King  Terror  comes, 
I  would  put  my  arms  around  her, 

But  my  lips  would  be  dumb. 

When  the  heart  and  mind  is  shattered 

By  the  thoughts  of  a  ruined  life, 
When  the  strings  of  hope  are  severed 

By  folly's  cruel  knife; 
When  the  lamp  of  life  is  feeble 

And  it's  flame  is  dim  and  low, 
There's  a  cloud  of  solemn  sadness 

Falling  round  you  as  you  go. 

Oh,  if  she  would  only  answer 

And  bid  me  hope  once  more, 
Oh,  if  she  would  send  me  greetings 

It  would  heal  this  heart  that's  tore. 
It  would  make  us  both  more  happy 

If  we  would  together  dwell. 
And  I'd  end  life's  checkered  journey 

With  the  one  I  loved  so  well. 

I  would  gather  the  children  round  us 

To  comfort  our  old  age, 
We  would  love  and  live  together, 

Let  storm  or  tempest  rage. 


140  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

There  joy  and  peace  and  kindness 
Would  hold  together  fast. 

Blotting  out  the  faults  and  failings 
Of  all  the  cruel  past. 

Then  I  would  be  so  happy, 

The  clouds  would  roll  away, 
And  we'd  live  just  like  old  sweethearts 

Until  our  dying  day. 
The  wind  would  carry  the  tidings, 

The  sun  would  brighter  shine, 
Sending  down  her  benediction 

On  that  sweet  wife  of  mine. 

But  I'll  bear  my  troubles  bravely, 

No  one  shall  hear  my  groans, 
I'll  borrow  smiles  and  laughter 

To  stifle  all  my  moans. 
I  will  love  her  as  strong  as  ever, 

Though  a  thousand  miles  apart, 
And  would  like  to  have  her  company, 

For  she  has  got  my  heart. 

So  I'm  lonely  and  forsakened, 

My  bright  hopes  have  fled, 
My  days  and  years  are  wasted 

Like  the  strands  of  a  broken  thread. 
But  I'll  journey  on  with  my  burden 

A  frail  and  broken  shell, 
And  with  me  in  all  my  rovings 

Goes  the  wife  that  I  loved  so  well. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    FERSES  141 


A  Happy  Home,  1892. 

We  in  our  happy  home,  dear  wife, 

Our  absent  ones  may  see, 
While  loving  arms  about  us  twine 

Like  tanbark  to  a  tree. 
'T  would  be  a  sad,  sad  thought,  dear  wife, 

To  think  we  loved  in  vain, 
Our  happy  dream  of  long  ago 

Would  give  but  burning  pain. 

The  flight  of  time  rolls  on,  dear  wife, 

It  haunts  me  more  and  more, 
And  in  the  happy  dream  of  night 

See  those  I've  seen  before. 
How  quick  the  time  does  pass,  dear  wife, 

The  evening  and  the  day, 
They  seem  to  chase  each  other 

Like  children  in  their  play. 

We  ventured  on  life's  sea,  dear  wife, 

With  vessels  weak  and  frail, 
The  storms  have  often  threatened  us 

And  tried  to  tear  our  sail. 
Our  boats  were  just  the  thing,  dear  wife, 

Good  lifeboats  true  and  tried, 
Which  safely  rode  the  angry  waves 

While  others  foundering  died. 

Our  riches  are  not  great,  dear  wife, 

Yet  hard  we've  toiled  and  worked. 
No  matter  what  discouragement 

We  never  played  the  shirk. 
We  are  not  as  poor  as  some,  dear  wife, 

We  have  never  lacked  for  meat. 
If  sometimes  just  a  little  scarce 

Qose  picking  made  it  sweet. 


142  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

Our  honeymoon  still  lasts,  dear  wife, 

Though  fifteen  years  have  gone 
Since  you  walked  up  to  the  marriage  chair 

And  the  bridal  veil  put  on. 
But  now  we  both  grow  old,  dear  wife, 

And  what  do  you  think  of  that? 
The  rosy  glow  of  youth  is  gone 

Like  Thompson's  spotted  cat. 

A  few  short  years  ago,  dear  wife, 

When  both  were  young  and  fair, 
Two  loving  hearts  together  grew 

And  formed  the  marriage  chair. 
And  in  the  good  old  chair,  dear  wife, 

Together  we  have  rocked, 
While  passion  storms  struck  others  hard 

We  never  have  been  shocked. 

Our  children,  too,  we  love,  dear  wife, 

And  they  just  number  three, 
While  little  Jay  lies   far  away 

Beneath  the  southern  tree. 
Our  hearts  are  very  sad,  dear  wife, 

When  with  the  silent  dead 
They  part  from  us  to  meet  no  more 

Until  the  seas  have  fled. 

Yes,  one  by  one  they  go,  dear  wife. 

To  slumber  and  to  sleep, 
Until  the  sea  gives  up  her  dead 

And  leaves  her  ancient  deep. 
The  sweetest  flowers  you  know,  dear  wife, 

Will  always  fade  and  die, 
They  come  and  bloom  for  a  little  while 

And  then  how  soon  they  fly. 

It  makes  me  sad  to  think,  dear  wife, 
That  we'll  be  called  to  part, 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  143 

For  Death  is  a  cold,  cruel  foe 

And  loves  to  pierce  the  heart. 
They  sa,y  it  comes  to  all,  dear  wife, 

I  feel  it  must  be  true, 
But  drop  on  us  thy  hovering  wings 

As  falls  the  evening  dew. 

The  gilded  cords  of  love,  dear  wife, 

By  age  they  say  will  break, 
But  we  will  love  each  other  more, 

As  Hermon  loved  the  lake. 
The  sunny  days  of  youth,  dear  wife, 

With  us  are  past  and  gone, 
But  still  we'll  hold  our  honeymoon 

As  silvery  hairs  come  on. 

While  walking  up  the  hill,  dear  wife, 

Two  hearts  have  beat  as  one, 
And  now  we'll  journey  down  again 

With  yonder  setting  sun. 
I  could  not  cause  you  pain,  dear  wife, 

Nor  from  you  could  I  roam, 
But  fair  sweet  flowers  will  I  seek 

And  twine  them  round  our  home. 


144  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

The  Darkies  Are  Leaving  Oklahoma. 

(A  Song} 


Oh,  the  darkies  am  offended 

And  are  gwine  to  emigrate, 
They  are  leaving  Oklahoma 

To  find  a  better  state. 
But  you  better  stay  with  uncle 

And  get  you  all  a  home, 
You  sure  can  do  the  pickin' 

If  you've  only  got  the  bone. 


Here  we  haA^e  a  great  big  country 

And  a  thousand  sort  of  things, 
An  easy  road  to  travel, 

So  we  have  no  use  for  kings. 
Our  president  is  a  stunner 

With  a  mighty  sight  of  gall, 
But  I  reckon  that  he  needs  it, 

For  he's  up  against  them  all. 

Here  we  have  the  grandest  country 

Beneath  the  shining  sun, 
In  science  and  inventions 

We  only  have  begun. 
Here  we  have  the  flag  of  colors, 

The  red,  \vhite  and  blue, 
The  good  man  and  the  bad  man, 

The  loyal  and  the  true. 

So  you  better  stay  with  uncle, 

Who  will  surely  pull  you  through, 
It's  the  foot  that  gets  the  pinching 

When  we're  putting  on  the  shoe. 
But  of  course  I'm  not  dictating, 

For  I  know  it  is  no  use, 
You  may  chew  your  own  tobacco 

And  may  also  spit  the  juice. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  145 

Yes,  you  better  stay  with  uncle, 

He's  a  great  and  mighty  man, 
When  he  calls  for  help  their  coming 

From  Besheba  unto  Dan. 
He  is  true  and  loyal  hearted 

And  will  use  you  well,  I  know, 
You  can  get  the  coon  and  opossum 

If  you  only  get  the  dough. 

When  Aunt  Dinah  pats  the  juba 

And  all  am  feelin'  fine, 
Oh,  what  a  happy  people 

As  the  stars  begin  to  shine. 
See  the  pickaninnies  prancing 

By  the  dim  light  of  the  moon, 
And  the  colored  belle  a-dancing 

When  the  fiddle  is  in  tune. 

So  go  to  Oklahoma,  boys, 

And  go  right  away, 
For  the  darkies  am  a  gwine 

And  I  guess  they're  gwine  to  stay. 
But  they  better  stay  with  uncle 

And  get  them  all  a  home, 
They  sure  can  do  the  pickin', 

If  they've  only  got  the  bone. 

But  of  course  I'm  not  dictating, 

For  I  know  it  is  no  use. 
You  may  chew  your  own  tobacco 

And  may  also  spit  the  juice. 


146  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

For  That  Bronk  Will  Throw   His  Rider 
Away  Out  in  Beulah  Land. 

(Song.) 


Away  out  in  the  country  on  the  far  Pacific  slope 
Roams  a  little  lady  rider  with  her  saddle  and  her  rope ; 
As  she  swings  into  the  saddle  with  the  reins  in  her  hand 
She's  the  picture  of  old  Ireland  to  grace  the  Beulah  land. 

Now  what's  the  matter,  Hannah,  are  you  going  to  ride 

that  horse  ? 

I  thought  he  had  you  buffaloed,  I  really  did,  of  course; 
You  may  swing  into  the  saddle  with  your  courage  and 

your  gall. 
But  something  will  be  doing  when  that  bronk  begins  to 

bawl. 

I  am  sure  it  is  no  picking  to  ride  a  wild  cayuse 

On  a  cold  and  frosty  morning  when  the  saddle  cinch  is 

loose ; 
Though  your  feet  are  in  the  stirrups  and  the  reins  are  in 

your  hand, 
Yet  that  bronk  will  throw  his  rider  away  out  in  Beulah 

land. 

Raven  locks  are  beautiful,  with  eyes  of  sunny  blue, 
But  yet  that  ornery  cayuse  has  no  respect  for  you ; 
Some  cold  and  frosty  morning  you  will  hear  an  awful 

squall, 
And  oh,  there'll  be  a  parting  when  that  bronk  begins  to 

bawl. 

I  want  to  tell  you,  Hannah,  it  ain't  no  safe  retreat 
To  mount  a  wall-eyed  broncho  when  he's  laying  for 
your  meat; 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  147 

Your  spurs  may  be  engravened,  have  a  shining  silver 

band, 
Yet  that  bronk  will  throw  his  rider  away  out  in  Beulah 

land. 


Now  listen  to  me,  young  cowgirl,  and  don't  you  be  so  fop 
For  your  tub  of  joy  is  brimming  and  is  just  about  to 

slop; 
Some  morning  after  breakfast  there  will  come  to  you  a 

call, 
And  oh,  an  awful  parting  as  the  bronk  begins  to  bawl. 

Yes.  some  morning  while  at  breakfast  the  flapjacks  being 

fine, 

You  will  eat  close  to  six  dozen  in  about  ten  minutes'  time ; 
Then  you'll  swing  into  the  saddle  with  the  reins  in  your 

hand, 
But  that  bronk  will  drop  his  baggage  away  out  in  Beulah 

land. 

Now  come  all  you  jolly  cowgirls  who  ride  the  Western 

plains, 
Come  stay  with  the  wall-eyed  broncho  till  he  breaks  the 

bridle  reins; 
For  if  you  don't  you'll  miss  it,  you  will  surely  hear  a 

squall, 
And  some  girl  will  find  a  landing  when  the  bronk  begins 

to  bawl. 

Then  swing  into  the  saddle,  boys,   when  you  hear  an 

awful  squall, 
For  some  girl  has  found  a  landing  as  her  bronk  began 

to  bawl; 
Yes,  swing  into  the  saddle,  boys,  with  the  rope  in  your 

hand, 
For  the  bronk  has  thrown  his  rider  away  out  in  Beulah 

land. 


148  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

The  Land  That  I  Love,  or  the  Roundup 
Coming  Through. 

(A  Song.) 

I  am  going  away  to  the  land  that  I  love, 

In  sweet  sunny  southland  I'll  roam, 
And  there  under  skies  that  are  sunny  and  blue 

I  will  build  me  a  snug-  little  home. 

Where  the  redbirds  do  whistle  and  the  mocking  bird  sings 

And  the  stars  their  glory  do  shine, 
Where  the  oak  and  the  ash  and  the  willow  tree  grow 

To  stand  with  the  hemlock  and  pine. 

Where  the  sweetest  wild  flowers  bedeck  the  green  sod, 

As  they  do  in  Erin's  green  isle, 
And  the  song  of  the  woodland  compels  you  to  stay 

And  romp  with  old  Nature  a  while. 

Oklahoma,  Oklahoma,  is  the  land  that  I  love, 
And  I  love  her  green  pastures  and  lanes, 

And  the  Red  Men  well  named  you  "the  beautiful  land," 
As  they  gazed  o'er  your  wide  spreading  plains. 

Oklahoma,  Oklahoma,  "the  beautiful  land," 

And  this  you  will  never  deny, 
For  the  leaves  of  your  forest  and  the  grass  on  your  plains 

Grow  under  a  sunny  blue  sky. 

Your  leafy  old  woodland  is  a  joy  to  behold 

By  those  who  are  famished  with  care, 
But  the  cloud  of  despondency  soon  pass  away 

As  they  rove  through  your  sweet  scented  air. 

Oklahoma,  Oklahoma,  I  love  thy  fair  land 
And  you  have  a  warm  place  in  my  breast, 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  149 

I  can  never  forget  you  nor  your  sunny  kissed  hills 
As  I  rove  through  the  wild  woolly  West. 

I  love  your  old  rangeland,  though  mangled  and  tore, 

And  the  wound  is  still  bleeding  today, 
But  the  white  man  they  say  has  a  balm  that  will  cure, 

But  I  can't  really  see  it  that  way. 

Yes,  I  loved  the  old  long-horn  as  he  used  to  appear 

To  gaze  on  your  green  grassy  sod, 
But  the  happy  dry  farmer  has  come  with  the  years 

And  over  your  threshold  will  trod. 

Like  the  old  Indian  tepee  your  cowboys  have  gone, 

No  more  will  they  circle  the  herd, 
No  more  will  they  listen  to  the  song  of  the  wind 

As  the  leaves  by  the  breezes  are  stirred. 

No  more  on  your  rangeland  will  the  cowpunchers  meet 

To  ride  on  the  merry  roundup, 
No  more  will  the  tenderfoot  heave  a  long  sigh. 

As  the  old  pitching  bronk  wins  the  cup. 

Your  sunny  old  rangeland  is  mangled  and  tore 
And  your  riders  have  lost  both  the  reins, 

Your  chuck  wagon's  empty,  your  saddles  uncinched, 
Since  the  long-horn  is  gone  from  the  plains. 

Like  the  Indian  and  buffalo  they  have  gone  the  long  trail 

And  we  see  their  footprints  no  more, 
But  a  feeling  of  sadness  sweeps  over  my  soul 

When  I  see  them  today  as  of  yore. 

When  I  first  seen  your  rangeland  great  joy  filled  my 
heart 

As  I  came  o'er  the  old  beaten  trail, 
Now  the  city  club  boosters,  dry  landers  and  all. 

Come  into  the  countrv  bv  rail. 


150  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

Oklahoma,  Oklahoma,  bright  jewel  of  years, 
Where  the  corn  and  the  cotton  both  grow, 

Where  the  rainbow  of  promise  spans  the  archway  above 
To  cheer  us  poor  mortals  below. 

Your  archways  as  blue  as  pretty  blue  bells 

That  twine  in  some  grass  bedded  dells, 
That  speaketh  in  language  so  modest  and  meek 

Its  love  for  the  land  where  it  dwells. 

Oklahoma,  Oklahoma,  sweet  dreams  of  the  past 

Are  oftimes  awakened  by  thee, 
Though  far  from  her  border  a  pilgrim  does  roam 

You  are  not  forgotten  by  me. 

Yes,  I'm  coming,  I'm  coming,  I'm  coming  again, 

To  roam  o'er  your  sunny  kissed  hills, 
While  the  old  roving  spirit  throbs  strong  in  my  heart 

I  can  but  remember  you  still. 

Where  the  sweetest  wild  flowers  grow  o'er  your  green 
sod 

Like  they  do  on  Erin's  green  isle, 
And  the  song  of  the  warblers  so<  sweet  to  the  ear 

Just  fills  your  whole  soul  with  a  smile. 

Yes,  I'm  going  away  to  that  land  that  I  love, 

Where  the  skies  are  so  sunny  and  blue, 
There  I'll  sit  and  I'll  wait,  but  I'll  wait  all  in  vain 

For  the  old  roundup  coming  through. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  151 


Home  on  the  Rangeland. 

My  home  is  on  the  rangeland,  far  away  from  any  town, 
In  the   shelter  and  protection    of    the    Rockies'    lofty 

crown. 
Where  such  inspiring   grandeur,    such   lockings  are   in 

sight, 
When  the  moon  is  playing  checkers  with  the  shadows 

of  the  night. 

And  the  grandest  little  brooklet,  just  as  jolly  as  can  be 
In  its  prancing,  dancing  manner  sings  its  lullaby  to  me. 
I  can  hear  it  in  the  twilight,  in  the  sunset  after-glow, 
I  can  hear  it  in  the  moonlight,  as  the  fire-fly  passes 
slow. 

When  the  banquet  meal  is  ready  and  you  are  about  to 
dine, 

Floating  'round  about  the  table  comes  the  breath  from 
off  the  pine. 

Happy  are  the  little  children  reared  in  a  home  so  rude, 

Eating  in  the  mountain  fastness,  sleeping  in  their  soli 
tude. 

Here's  the  place  for  nature  lovers,  in  this  far-secluded 

spot, 
With    nature    cutting  antics  where  the  Master's  hand 

has  wrought, 
Where  a  man  in  health  and  gladness  will  appreciate  its 

worth, 
Drinking   from  the  gushing  fountains  pouring  out  of 

Mother  Earth. 


152  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 


The  Locoed  Sheep. 

(Song) 


When  you  get  to  be  a  loco 

How   happy   you   will  be, 
A  chasing  squirrels  and  rabbits 

And  barking  at  the  tree. 
A  funny  way  of  walking 

And  looking  'round  for  dope, 
Makes  even  mule-eared  rabbits 

Go  sideways  as  they  lope. 

The  coyotes,  they  won't  kill  you ; 

They  think  you  are  too  tough. 
Your  meat  has  got  the  flavor 

Of  loco,  sure  enough. 
You  can  see  all  horrid  creatures 

A  dancing  on  the  plains, 
And  scare  the  dry-land  farmers 

Till  they  want  to  leave  their  claims. 

I  think  you  need  some  fixing, 

For  you're  shaking  in  your  boots ; 
You  are  living  now  on  loco 

And  feasting  on  its  roots. 
'Till  you  find  this  weed  of  virtue 

You  are  Johnny  on  the  trot, 
And  like  Old  Davy  Crockett, 

Stand  grinning  at  the  spot. 

You  had  better  go  out  fishing, 

Away  up  in  a  cloud ; 
With  a  green   hoop  pole   for  suckers 

And   your   chariot   rumbling  loud. 
You  would  surely  get  some  whoppers 

If  you  had  a  lasso  rope, 
But  you  have  to  keep  a  walking 

And  looking  'round  for  dope. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  153 

You  are  an  old  booze-fighter, 

And  you  have  got  its  curse ; 
And  like  the  old  booze  drinkers, 

Are  getting  worse  and  worse. 
If  you  could  only  reason 

I  would  take  you  by  the  neck 
And  drag  you  to  a  looking  glass 

To  gaze  at  this  old  wreck. 

You  will  fight  this  weed  of  loco 

Until  your  life  will  end 
A  dope-fiend  and  sang-rooter 

And  a  real  old  loco  friend. 
Some  day  you'll  go  star  gazing 

Out  on  the  loco  flat 
Where  you'll  leave  your  locoed  carcass, 

I   will  bet  my  Stetson  hat. 


The  Cowboys'  Last  Retreat. 

(To  my  friend  Flood.) 

Well,  Flood,  old  pard,  cold,  cruel  fate 

Hath  dealt  us  both  a  blow ; 
And  as  we  sit  in  prison  garb 

We  sadly  know  it's  so. 
The  days !  how  long  they  do  appear. 

The  nights  appear  the  same ; 
Here  we  have  time  to  view  the  past 

And  try  to  hide  its  shame. 

Us  cowboys,  by  our  reckless  ways, 
Have  often   found  the  snare 

That  tripped  us  up  and  held  us  fast 
To   sweat  in  deep  despair. 


154  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

With  storms  upon  the  sea  of  life 

We  sometimes  run  amuck; 
Rough  billows  toss  our  empty  barque, 

To  try  our  cowboys'  pluck. 

There  is  a  way  that  seemeth  right, 
To  man  of  woman  born, 

It  leads  him  to  the  door  of  death- 
Forsaken  and   forlorn. 

Oh,  why  will  we  poor  mortal  men 
Forever   court   distress, 

While  on  we  ride  at  breakneck  sneecl 
Great  evils  to  caress. 

There  is  a  better  way  to  live. 

And  a  better  way  to  die : 
The  stripes  we  wear  today,  old  pard. 

Make  plain  the  reason  why. 
Prepare  to  ride  the  upper  range, 

Where  the  round-up  herd  will  feed. 
Where  the  grass  is  rich  with  the  juice  of  life 

To  satisfy  your  need. 

There  the  round-up  boss  is  good  and  kind, 

And  the  flower  of  love  doth  grow : 
You'll  find   some  old-time   cowboys  there, 

Who  rode  on  the  range  below 
And  were  caught  by  the  gospel  round-up. 

On  the  range  where  they  long  had  sinned 
And  the  brand  of  life  now  glow  and  shine 

With  a  luster  there  undimmed. 

Come,  put  your  name  on  the  big  brand  book, 
Ere  you  pass  to  the  great  divide; 

Come  spread  your  bed  bv  the  river  of  life, 
Where  the  range  is  big  and  wide. 

There  you  can  roam  the  sun-lit  plains — 
The  cowbovs'  last  retreat ; 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  155 

There  you  can  stay  with  the  round-up  herd, 
Where  the  water  is  clear  and  sweet. 

There  you  can  range  in  pastures  green, 

Away  from  the  child  of  sin; 
And  drink  from  the  clear,  cool  stream  of  life 

And  have  no    foe   within. 
There  you  can  look  with  eyes  undimmed, 

When  the  sun  is  setting  low 
On  rosy  clouds  of  rainbow  hue. 

Caused  by  its  after-glow. 

Only  a  few  more  days,  dear  friend, 

And  your  pardon  you  regain ; 
And  may  you  love  and  cherish  it, 

And  prize  it  to  retain. 
Farewell,  dear  friend,  be  good,  old  pard, 

May  the  world  to  you  be  kind, 
As  you  give  the  last,  long  lingering  look 

To  the  ones  you  leave  behind. 

And  when  outside,  among  your  friends, 

Be  honest,  true   and  straight, 
And  lend  a  hand  to  a  brother  man, 

And  help  him  find  the  gate 
That  opens  up  to  the  other  range, 

Where  the  round-up  herd  will  feed ; 
Where  the  round-up  boss  with  love  and  life 

Will   satisfv  vour  need. 


156  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

Farewell  to  Montana,  the  Gem  of 
the  West. 


Farewell  to  Montana,  the  gem  of  the  West, 

For  I  now  have  no  wife,  nor  no  home. 
I  will  bid  you  adieu,  turn  quickly  away 

For  sorrow^  compels  me  to  roam. 
My  children,  come  kiss  me,  ere  I  am  away 

To  journey  the  road  that  is  drear, 
The  parting  is  painful  and  stifles  my  breast, 

When  I  fancy  your  voices  I  hear. 

Farewell  to  Montana,  bright  jewel  of  years, 

And  farewell  to  its  prison  of  shame, 
Where  her  cold,  cruel  walls,  with  iron-grated  cells, 

Cast  a  shadow  and  blot  on  my  name. 
I  have  stood  on  the  summit  of  mountain  and  hill, 

And  looked  upon  scenes  that  were  fair, 
But  a  cold,  cruel  prison,  home-trouble,  and  sin 

Has  furrowed  my  brow  with  your  care. 

Farewell  to  Montana,  sweet  land  of  the  West. 

Yet  you  still  are  as  dear  to  my  heart 
As  the  day  of  my  childhood,  around  the  old  home, 

That  from  me  can  never,  no  never,  depart. 
So  your  charms  long  will  haunt  me  where  ever  I  go 

And  o'er  my  sad  bosom  will  roll, 
On  plain,  hill  or  valley,  or  surf-beaten  coast, 

You  will  be  to  my  heart,  what  you  were  to  my  soul. 

Not  a  friend  have  I  left  in  this  great  treasure  state, 

Where  I  once  was  so  happy  and  free ; 
They  are  gone  like  the  snow  flake  that  kissed  the  proud 
wave, 

As  it  danced  on  the  sparkling  blue  sea. 
Gone  like  the  sweet  flowers  when  bitten  by  frost, 

Or  dewdrops  by  the  rays  of  the  sun. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  157 

So  I'll  wander  in  gloom,  with  despondency  veiled, 
'Till  my  roving  on  earth  will  be  done. 

Farewell  to  Montana,  sweet  land  of  my  liking, 

Where  winds  of  misfortune  have  blown ; 
When  harvest  is  over,  then  I  will  be  gone, 

To  roam  the  wide  world  all  alone. 
At  the  cabin  on  Bridger  I  have  tarried  quite  long, 

'Till  the  cold  winter  snow  would  go  'way, 
But  the  grass  now  is  growing,  the  sun  shining  bright, 

And  I  have  not  much  longer  to  stay. 

Farewell  to  Montana,  thou  pearl  of  great  price, 

Farewell  to  the  trail  of  the  West; 
And  as  I  go  forth,  faith  leads  me  along 

With  the  flowers  of  peace  in  my  breast. 
I  leave  not  behind  me  a  grief-stricken  wife, 

With  children  caresses  to  dwell. 
But  far,  far  away,  to  a  land  west  of  this 

Live  the  ones  that  I  still  love  so  well. 

May  their  slumber  be  sweet  in  the  stillness  of  night, 

When  the  stars  in  their  glory  look  down. 
And  recall  in  bright  vision  the  joys  of  their  youth, 

While  the  blessings  of  love  did  abound. 
May  the  silvery  moon  in  her  journey  of  night, 

Speak  gently  to  her  of  the  past, 
And  cover  with  mantle  that  one  hasty  choice 

To  be  blighted  and  parted  at  last. 

It  is  hard  to  be  parted  from  wife  and  from  home, 

When  misfortune  has  cast  her  dark  frown; 
It  is  hard  to  be  happy,  when  despondency  come 

And  throws  her  dark  shadows  around. 
But  when  storms  of  great  fierceness  sweep  over  my  soul 

And  dangers  my  pathway  beset, 
Yet  beyond  the  dark  cloud  shines  the  rainbow  of  hope 

For  my  Jesus  is  still  with  me  yet. 


158  RHYMES   FROM    THE   RANGELAND 

Farewell  to  Montana,  to  the  land  of  the  gold, 

Farewell  to  the  gem  of  the  West; 
I'll  cherish  sweet  memories  of  thee  when  away, 

And  mantle  them  deep  in  my  breast. 
Your  mountains  and  hill  tops,  rivers  and  rills 

Just  make  me  look  up  with  a  start; 
Bringing  strength  to  my  muscles  and  light  to  my  eyes, 

Giving  health  to  my  soul  and  my  heart. 

Farewell  to  Montana,  the  great  smiling  land, 

And  farewell  to  her  rich  and  her  poor; 
May  her  soil  in  great  plenty  yield  well  her  increase, 

And  blessing  descend   'round  your  door. 
The  soil  that  in  childhood  my  footstep  has  pressed 

Shall  nourish  the  flower  that  blooms  in  the  West, 
And  I'll  cherish  sweet  memories  of  thee  when  away 

And  mantle  them  deep  in  my  breast. 


Oklahoma,  Meaning  Beautiful  Land. 

(Song.) 


Oh,  let  us  look  back  to  that  country  again 

Far  away  to  the  sweet  Sunny  South. 
Where  the  mocking  bird  wakes  us  so  early  each  day, 

With  the  sweetest  of  songs  from  his  mouth. 

Where  the  redbirds  whistle  in  the  cottonwood  groves 

That  skirts  the  Canadian  shore, 
And  the  whippoorwill's  song  we  will  hear  once  again, 

As  we  heard  long  ago  from  our  door. 

Where  the  peach  and  the  apple  both  flourish  and  grow 

In  that  beautiful  land  far  away; 
Come,  let  us  go,  let  us  go  to  that  beautiful  land, 

In  that  beautiful  land  let  us  stay. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  359 

There  we  can  feast  till  our  hearts  are  content, 

On  cherries  that  are  juicy  and  red, 
And  strawberries,  too,  that  will  melt  in  your  mouth ; 

Will  you  go?  I  will  go,  I  have  said. 

There  are  melons  so  large  you  can't  eat  one  at  all — 
It  would  take  a  whole  day  more  or  less — 

And  nice  sweet  potatoes  so  sappy  with  juice — 
I  could  eat  a  full  dozen  I  guess. 

Dear  wife,  let  us  go  to  that  land  of  thy  dreaming, 
Where  the  summers  are  tinted  with  azure  and  gold; 

Where  the  winters  are  soft  with  life's  music  throbbing, 
And  night  with  its  moonlight  has  glory  untold. 

Land  of  the  sooners  and  the  boomers  of  old, 
Land  of  the  Cheyenne  and  the  Arapahoes,  too; 

Land  of  the  cotton,  the  wheat  and  the  corn, 

Basking  in  sunshine  where  the  skies  are  of  blue. 

What's  the  use  living  in  a  land  where  we're  freezing, 
And  spend  all  our  money  for  fuel  and  coal ; 

Where  the  storm  and  the  blizzard  both  feel  for  your  life, 
And  poverty  feels  for  your  soul. 

It's  a  land  of  great  orchards  where  the  fruit  is  the  best 

That  grows  in  the  sunshine  or  wet; 
Oh,  land  of  great  promise,  fair  land  of  my  dreams, 

How  can  I,  how  can  I  forever  forget. 

Here  the  meadow  lark  sings  in  the  cottonwood  trees, 
When  the  leaves  by  the  zephyrs  are  stirred, 

And  the  howl  of  the  coyote  is  heard  in  the  hills, 
Where  the  cowboy  sings  low  to  his  herd. 

There  fruit  and  flowers  both  flourish  and  grow, 

In  old  Oklahoma,  sweet  land; 
Won't  you  go,  won't  you  go?  and  there  let  us  stay 

In  that  country  so  great  and  so  grand. 


160  RHYMES    FROM    THE    RAN  GEL  AND 


Flanigan's  Pan  Cake. 

The  experience  of  an  old  school  teacher  keeping  bach 
and  baking  pancakes. 

Flanigan,  the  bachelor,  lived  up  in  a  hall, 
As  a  baker  of  pancakes  he  was  the  pride  of  them  all ; 
His  clothes  were  all  grease  from  his  feet  to  his  head, 
And  grease  all  the  way  from  stove  to  the  bed. 

He  came  home  one  night  and  it  must  have  been  late. 
For  he  rushed  about  madly  and  he  wished  for  a  mate ; 
He  said  to  himself  when  a  man's  forty-four 
And  has  bached  it  ten  years  he  should  bach  it  no  more. 

I   am   up  every  morning  exactly   at   seven, 
And  when  breakfast  is  ready  it's  half  past  eleven; 
And  he  stamped  down  his  feet,  it's  the  pest  of  my  life — 
I  wish  to  my  soul  I  had  a  good  wife. 

Ah,  said  Flanigan,  it  is  useless  to  fret, 

I  will  bake  a  big  fellow  that  will  last,  you  bet ; 

I'll  dress  myself  up  like  a  bit  of  a  fairy, 

I'll  drive  away  trouble  or  play  the  old  Harry. 

So  he  greased  his  griddle  from  bottom  to  top, 
And  poured  in  the  batter  with  a  flippity  flop ; 
When  the  griddle  got  hot,  why  the  batter  did  too, 
And  the  hotter  it  got  the  faster  it  grew. 

It  grew  out  of  the  griddle  in  a  very  short  round — 
In  an  hour  from  that  it  weighed  ninety  pounds; 
It  lay  on  the  stove  and  rested  quite  well — 
He  crammed  in  the  wood,  it  grew  and  it  swelled. 

When  the  pancake  was  done  it  reached  to  the  door, 
On  the  right  and  the  left  it  covered  the  floor; 
And  of  all  the  great  pancakes  that  ever  was  baked, 
None  ever  equaled  the  Irish  pancake. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  161 

He  ran  for  the  door  but  he  could  not  get  out, 
Then  he  started  at  once  for  a  different  route; 
With  his  foot  on  the  floor  and  his  arm  on  the  cake, 
He  tried  to  get  up  but  he  couldn't  quite  make. 

He  succeeded,  however,  in  making  his  escape, 
But  he  sprained  his  ankle  in  making  the  leap; 
With  wondering  eyes  he  peered  in  at  the  door, 
For  he  never  saw  such  a  terror  before. 

The  pancake  loomed  up  like  a  ship  in  a  fog, 

\Vith  high  and  low  places  like  knots  on  a  log; 

The  inside  was  juicy  with  very  large  holes, 

And  looked  for  the  world  like  there  might  be  some  gold. 

So  he  broke  off  a  chunk  and  carried  it  away, 
To  the  assayer's  office  to  see  would  it  pay; 
The  assayer  took  it  and  put  on  the  test, 
And  said  that  the  chunk  was  one  of  the  best. 

One  thousand,  said  he,  it  would  run  to  the  ton — 
The  finest  gold  ore  found  under  the  sun; 
Ore  like  this  chunk  shows  a  very  rich  streak — 
I  believe  in  my  soul  it  came  from  Hahn's  Peak. 

While  the  old  assayer  was  testing  the  ore, 
Flanigan  was  laughing  his  sides  really  sore ; 
But  he  made  him  an  offer  for  the  cake  as  it  lay — 
Forty-five  thousand  and  all  in  good  pay. 

Flanigan's  pancake  brought  a  very  large  sum, 
But  the  old  assayer  was  the  one  that  was  done; 
He  employed  forty  oxen  to  haul  it  away, 
And  fifty  brave  Irishmen  to  work  by  the  day. 

At  the  mouth  of  the  canyon  they  thought  it  the  best, 
For  the  light-hearted  Irish  to  put  on  the  test; 
They  blew  it  wide  open  and,  oh,  such  a  fake, 
And  the  Irish  were  covered  with  batter  from  the  cake. 


162  RHYMES    FROM    THE    RAN  GEL  AND 

A  long  train  of  Irish  soon  started  for  town, 
And  worse  looking  Irish  could  never  be  found ; 
For  the  bold  witty  Irish  were  heavy  with  woe, 
For  Flanigan's  pancake  had  given  them  its  dough. 


Give  Me  the  Woman  Who  Loves 
the  Fresh  Air. 


Oh,  give  me  the  woman  who  loves  the  fresh  air, 
Her  cheeks  will  be  rosy  and  her  countenance  fair; 
She  will  rise  from  her  slumber  as  fresh  as  a  lark, 
Have  a  sweet  disposition  from  daylight  till  dark ; 
She  will  raise  up  the  windows  and  open  the  door, 
She  will  polish  the  stove  and  scrub  up  the  floor. 

In  the  far  away  West  where  love  has  its  source, 
This  little  brave  woman  will  ride  the  wild  horse; 
Let  him  rear  on  his  haunches  or  twist  in  the  air — 
Three  cheers  for  the  woman  who  stays  with  him  there ; 
See  him  go  to  it,  now  watch  her  ply  to  the  quirt, 
Here's  proof  without  asking  that  this  woman's  no  flirt. 

Oh,  give  me  the  woman  with  a  warm  loving  heart, 
Where  kindness  and  sympathy  both  have  a  start; 
Where  tender  compassion  sits  there  as  a  queen, 
Where  Judgment  and  Justice  with  Wisdom  is  seen. 
Such  a  woman  with  natural  endowments  is  blest, 
And  here  they  will  sparkle  like  gems  in  the  West. 

Her  children,  like  rosebuds,  will  be  sweet  and  as  fair 
As  the  sunbeams  and  moonbeams  that  falls  on  their  hair ; 
She'll  be  clean,  neat  and  tidy,  her  teeth  like  the  pearl — 
Good  natured,  good  mannered  like  the  real  Western  girl. 
So  give  me  the  woman  who  loves  the  fresh  air, 
Her  cheeks  will  be  rosy  and  her  countenance  fair. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  163 

You  will  find  all  the  women  who  love  the  great  West 
Have  a  sense  of  wild  freedom  that  throbs  in  their  breast ; 
They'll  run  you  a  footrace — did  you  see  how  she  grinned  ? 
See  her  hair  hanging  down  keeping  time  with  the  wind. 
Yes,  give  me  the  woman  who  loves  the  fresh  air, 
Her  cheeks  will  be  rosy  and  her  countenance  fair. 

So  here's  to  the  brave  woman  of  mountain  and  plain. 
I  give  her  my  hand  and  rejoice  in  her  reign ; 
In  danger  she's  fearless  and  in  love  she  is  strong, 
Her  path  is  all  sunshine  and  her  home  is  all  song. 
So  give  me  the  woman  who  loves  the  fresh  air, 
Her  cheeks  will  be  rosy  and  her  countenance  fair. 

Oh,  give  me  the  woman  who  loves  with  a  zest 
Her  chickens  and  turkeys  in  a  home  of  the  West ; 
Though  her  home  be  it  humble  her  heart  will  be  warm 
Through    sunshine   and   tempest,   through   blizzard   and 

storm. 

Such  a  woman  as  this  is  as  dear  to  my  hear 
As  the  joys  of  my  boyhood  which  cannot  depart. 

She's  the  pride  of  the  ranch  in  her  up-to-date  gown, 
And  the  queen  of  the  city  when  she  goes  to  the  town; 
She's  as  fair  as  a  rosebud  when  encircled  with  dew, 
And  a  gem  of  perfection  both  priceless  and  true. 
So  give  me  the  woman  who  loves  the  fresh  air, 
Her  cheeks  will  be  rosv  and  her  countenance  fair. 


164  RHYMES    FROM    THE    RANGELAND 


On  the  Bellefouche  Far  Away. 

Talk    about    your    pretty    countries    and    a    climate    all 

superb, 
Where  the  ranchers  are  all  wealthy  with  their  horses  and 

their  herds, 
Where  every  one  is  welcomed  and  they  want  a  thousand 

more 

To  settle  in  their  country  to  prospect  or  explore : 
It's  the  Black  Hills  lovely  region,  where  the  wild  horse 

used  to  stray, 
In  the   South  Dakota  country  on  the   Bellefouche    far 

away. 

The  red  men  loved  this  hunting  ground — it  used  to  be 

their  home — 
Where  the  elk  and  shaggy  buffalo  around  them  there 

did  roam; 
It   was   here   they  held   their   green-corn-dance    and   lit 

their  council  fire, 
They    roamed    this    region    o'er   and    o'er   to    fill    their 

heart's  desire; 
And  from  the  Black  Hills  highest  peaks  this  valley  could 

survey, 
In   the   South  Dakota   country  on  the   Bellefouche   far 

away. 

The  noble  red  man  now  is  gone  from  where  they  used  to 

dwell, 
Caught  in  the  white  man's  roundup  and  drove  to  a  fare- 

you-well ; 
They  cheated  them  out  of  their  land  and  to  this  you 

say,   ahem, 
But  the  devil  he  will  deal  with  you  as  you  have  dealt 

with  them. 

The  tomahawk  and  scalping  knife  are  not  in  use  today, 
In   the   South   Dakota  country  on   the   Bellefouche    far 

away. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  165 

The  red  men  with  their  mighty  chiefs  are  forced  from 

off  the  land, 
Caught  by  the  white  man's  roundup  and  drove  to  the 

barren  sand. 
Old   Sitting   Bull,   an   old   Sioux   Chief,    was   brave   as 

brave  could  be, 
But  now  is  gone  to  his  hunting  ground — was  killed  at 

Wounded  Knee. 
No  more  the  Sioux  that  country  raid,  revenge  has  had 

its  sway, 
In   the   South   Dakota   country   on  the   Bellefouche   far 

away. 

The  great  and  noble  red  man  has  not  been  treated  right — 
The  white  man  took  away  their  land  and  forced  them 

then  to  fight. 
The  tomahawk  and  scalping  knife  then  played  an  active 

part. 
And  many  a  pale-faced  soldier  fell  when  arrow  pierced 

his  heart. 

Away  from  home  and  loving  friends  to  perish  and  decay, 
In  the    South   Dakota  country  on  the   Bellefouche    far 

away. 

Rain-in-the-Face,  once  mighty  chief,  has  gone  to  raising 

stock 
On  the  big  Missouri  River  at  the  old  place — Standing 

Rock. 

They  seem  to  be  contented  there  and  happy  with  their  lot, 
Forgetting  all  the  old-time  raids  and  battles  that  they 

fought. 
The  old  war  bonnet  and  war  shirt  no  more   are  used 

today, 
In   the   South   Dakota   country  on  the   Bellefouche    far 

away. 

The  South  Dakota  country  is  a  land  that's  bright  and 
fair — 


166  RHYMES    FROM    THE    RANGELAND 

Most  of  her  braves  have  crossed  the  ridge  to  meet  the 

others  there; 
And  may  they  reach  their  hunting  grounds  and  always 

there  reside, 
Where   all  their  pale- face   enemies   will   have  to   camp 

outside. 
May  he  who  gave  them  power  to  wield  the  tomahawk  in 

war, 
Give  them  more  peace  and  happiness  than  they  ever  had 

before. 

The   Black   Hills  are   so  lovely  when  the  wrestern    sun 

reclines, 
When   the   wooded   hills   and    valleys    throw    forth    the 

scent  of  pine. 
Nature  there   is  beautiful   on   a   scale  that's   great   and 

grand, 
With    the   sunset   throwing   kisses   that    western   winds 

have  fanned. 
Her    canyons    draped    in    splendor    and    mystic    beauty 

sways, 
In  the   South   Dakota   country   on  the   Bellefouche    far 

away. 

Her  canyons  great  and  mighty  with  transcendent  beauty 

hung, 

That  my  vivid  imagination  to  the  highest  pitch  is  strung; 
And  I  see  the  great  Creator  sitting  on  the  circling  earth, 
In  His  hands  he  holds  the  colors  of  the  rainbow  since 

its   birth ; 
And  He  spreads  those  lovely  garments,   so  beautifully 

and  so  gay, 
In  the  South  Dakota  country  on  the  Black  Hills   far 

away. 

So  come  where  lovely  scenery  glows  and  sun-lit  valleys 

shine, 
Where  wooded  hills  and  grassy  vales  throw7   forth  the 

scent  of  pine ; 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  167 

Where   sapphire   hues   are   blended   with   the   rainbow's 

graceful  form, 

And  mystic  beauty  lingers  in  the  sunshine  and  the  storm ; 
Where  moonlit  nights  are  clear  and  bright  and  sunlit 

valleys  lay, 
In   the   South   Dakota  country  on   the   Bellefouche   far 

awav. 


When  Lovina  Was  My  Sweetheart  So 
Many  Years  Ago. 

(Song.) 


'Midst   the   green    fields   of   Ohio    as   the    western    sun 

reclines, 
When  the  evening  breeze  is  playing  with  the  morning 

glory  vines, 
It  is  there  my  mind  goes  wandering  and  a  rhyme  begins 

to    flow, 
When  Lovina  was  my  sweetheart  so  many  years  ago. 

When  the  silvery  moon  was  climbing  and  the  twinkling 

stars  had  come, 
Down  the  dear  old  dusty  road  the  buggy  wheels  would 

hum ; 
Then  my  heart  would  beat  and  flutter  and  my  soul  be 

all  aglow, 
When  Lovina  was  my  sweetheart  so  many  years  ago. 

When  the  summer  days  were  over  and  the  cool  autumn 

came, 

No  frost  could  nip  a  blossom  as  sweet  as  Lovina's  name. 
Life  is  always  worth  its  living,  she  would  say  it  soft  and 

low, 
This  pretty  little  lover  that  I  loved  long  years  ago. 


168  RHYMES    FROM    THE    RANGELAND 

Oh!  the   fragrance  of  the  breezes  where   the  morning 

glory  twine, 
With  my  lover  sitting  'neath  them  as  the  western  sun 

reclines ; 
The  curtains  of  night  are  lovely  and  the  moonlight  tells 

you  so, 
When  you  were  out  a-strolling  with  the  one  of  long  ago. 

When  my  roving,  rambling  nature  takes  me  back  to  the 

dear  old  State, 
There  I  see  that  charming  lover  standing  at  the  roadside 

gate; 

A-standing  and  a-smiling  as  she  always  used  to  do. 
When  I  would  say,  "Lovina,  have  you  read  that  letter 

through  ?" 

I  have  seen  some  lovely  landscapes  from  swift  onrush- 
ing  trains, 

And  have  gazed  upon  the  mountain  tops  while  on  the 
western  plains, 

But  the  most  inviting  lover  and  who  haunts  me  where 

I  go, 

Was  Lovina  as  my  sweetheart  so  many  years  ago. 

I  am  sure  I  cannot  help  it  but  I'm  wondering  all  the  time, 
Will    we   ever    meet    together    where    the    western    sun 

reclines  ? 

Will  I  feel  again  that  pleasure,  like  a  river  in  its  flow. 
Strolling  with  that  old-time  lover  that  I  loved  so  long 

ago? 

Will  we  talk  the  many  happenings  and  the  changes  that 

have  come? 
Will  we  whisper  love  together  or  will  our  tongues  be 

dumb? 
Will  we  count  again  our  friendship  where  sweet  wild 

flowers  grow. 
And  be  again  true  lovers  as  we  were  long  years  ago? 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    FERSES  169 

Oh,    if    I    was   only   with   her    where    the    western    sun 

reclines, 
Out  where  the  western  breezes  get  their  fragrance  from 

the  pines ; 

I  would  give  my  summer  wages  if  I  could  only  know, 
Where  this  lover  is  a-rambling  that  I  loved  so  long  ago. 

Love,  you  know,  is  beautiful  that  stays  and  grows  and 

shines ; 
Love,  you  know,  is  beautiful  that  hangs  and  twists  and 

twines. 

Just  now  it  sends  its  signals  to  the  place  I  used  to  know, 
When  Lovina  was  my  sweetheart  so  many  years  ago. 

Lovina.  the  green  fields  of  Ohio,  have  you  forgotten 

now? 
And  the  promise  that  you  made  to  me — I  can't  see  really 

how. 
I  would  give  my  summer  wages  and  a  coon  skin,  don't 

you  know. 
If  you  would  be  my  sweetheart  as  you  were  long  years 

asro. 


170  RHYMES    FROM    THE    RANGELAND 


Leaving  the  Old  Farm  for  the  City. 

Old  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Plugmyer  leave  their  quiet  home 
for  the  city,  and  are  led  away  by  fashions,  and  become 
gay,  but  at  last  return  to  the  old  farm. 

I  say,  dear  wife,  we'll  pack  our  trunks  and  to  the  city  go, 
For  out  here  in  the  backwoods  the  things  do  move  so 

slow. 
You  know,  dear  wife,  I've  toiled  and  worked  to  keep 

ourselves  in  rations, 
While    you    were    galivanting    round    a    chasing    after 

fashions. 

We  have  been  here  in  these  backwoods  just  thirty  years 

today, 

A-toiling  and  a-working,  but  I  find  it  doesn't  pay. 
We  haven't  seen  the  world,  you  know,  or  what  the  world 

is  like, 
But  just  stayed  here  together  since  we've  been  man  and 

wife. 

I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do,  dear  wife.  I  think  it  for  the 

best. 
We'll  move  right  off  to  the  city  and  let  the  old  farm 

rest. 
You    may   get    a   pretty   dress    and    have   it    togged   in 

fashion, 
And  I  will  get  a  brand  new   suit  and   off  we'll   go  a 

dashin'. 

We  will  have  the  best  of  everything  that   money  can 

afford — 

You  shall  be  my  loving  queen  and  I  shall  be  your  lord. 
We'll  stroll  together  here  and  there  along  great  pleasure 

streets ; 
A  parachute  we'll  surely  get  to  keep  from  us  the  heat. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    J/ERSES  171 

We'll  have  breakfast  gowns,  dinner  gowns  and  evening 

gowns,  you  know; 

Driving  gowns  and  tea  gowns  enough  to  rig  a  show. 
The  people  they  will  wonder  where  we  gathered  all  our 

riches, 
When  they  see  me  with  my  swallow  tail  and  Philadelphia 

breeches. 


We'll  have  the  second-hand  man,  you  know,  to  make 

a  call, 

And  sell  to  him  our  furniture,  our  carpets  and  our  all. 
To  take  this  backwoods  furniture  to  the  city  wouldn't  do, 
But  must  have  the  nicest  furniture  and  have  it  all  bran 

new. 

This  is  a  discontented  world  and  some  day  we  may  feel 
That  we  have  made  a  great  mistake  when  city  life  is 

real. 
Only  a  few  more  minutes,  wife,  and  the  \vagon  we  will 

see, 
That  from  this  old  log  cabin,  dear,  will  hustle  you  and 

me. 

When  we  get  there,  I  say,  dear  wife,  we'll  be  a  feeling 

fine; 

We'll  be  the  gayest  of  the  gay  and  be  it  all  the  time. 
We'll  buy  a  wheel  apiece,  good  wife,  and  go  out  for  a 

ride, 
And  spin  along  the  avenues  and  down  by  the  river  side. 

They  are  just  the  thing  for  ladies,  if  they  wear  divided 

skirts, 
And  the  girl  that  rides  the  pretty  wheel  often  with  her 

lover  flirts. 
The  women  folks  look  scary,  but  they  cannot  stop  the 

show 
Of  neat  propelling  feet  and  limbs  as  lovers  come  and  go. 


172  RHYMES    FROM    THE    RANGELAND 

It's  get  there  Eli  in  the  rush  and  join  them  in  the  whirl; 
I'll  act  young  again,  you  know,  and  you  just  like  a  girl; 
And  you,  good  wife,  must  get  some  curls  raised  on  the 

heads  of  others, 
And  be  a  belle  and  cut  a  swell  exactly  like  your  brothers. 

So  we  started  out  next  morning  long  before  the  break 

of  day, 

And  left  the  old  log  cabin  for  the  city  bright  and  gay. 
I  had  on  my  brand  new  suit,  my  whiskers  trimmed 

aright — 
It  seemed  I  was  dressed  up  so  fine  it  almost  hurt  my 

sight. 

I  do  declare  upon  my  word  my  wife  was  dressed  most 

frightful, 
Yet  she  was  tickled  through  and  through,  she  thought 

it  just  delightful; 

She  was  a  blaze  of  splendor,  no  need  you  have  to  doubt ; 
'Her  dress  was  loud  enough  to  call  the  fire  department 

out. 

She  was  a  star  of  beauty  as  you  often  read  in  story — 
Just  like  a  host  of  other  stars  but  differing  some  in 

glory. 

In  satin,  sash  and  ribbons  my  wife  was  nearly  hid: 
Much  like  the  morning  glory  vine  that  hides  the  katy-did. 

With  a  pink  belt  ribbon  round  her  waist  she  just  lit  up 

the  sky. 
And  peaked  headed  like,  you  know,  she  danced  a  little 

high. 

Her  dress  was  rather  low  in  neck,  but  very  rich  and  rare ; 
Upon  my  word  I  couldn't  dance — could  only  stand  and 

stare. 

I   thought  her   trim   and   neat   enough    for  almost   any 

preacher. 
And  I  was  bound  to  fall  in  line  if  I  had  to  hire  a  teacher. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    FERSES  173 

So  I  got  up  a  full  dress  suit  to  gratify  my  passion, 
And  got  a  low-necked,  bald-faced  shirt  to  be  up  with 
the  fashion. 

I  shaved  my  old  side-whiskers  off,  because  they  were 

unhandy, 
And  on  my  chin  I  gew  a  bunch  of  whiskers  coarse  and 

sandy ; 
My  old  shirt  sleeves  I  then  cut  off  ten  inches  more  or 

less, 
And  at  the  ball  that  evening  I  entered  in  full  dress. 

We  danced  all  night  in  great  delight  and  swift  the  hours 

flew, 
And  through  excitement  of  the  night  the  morning  quickly 

drew ; 
But  my  old  wife  just  took  the  cake,  for  she  was  pert 

and  spry, 
And   none  of  the   younger  ones   could   swing  or  even 

dance   as  high. 

We  enjoyed  ourselves   so  much  that  night  we  had  to 

sleep  next  day, 

But  soon  we  blossomed  out  again  as  flowers  do  in  May; 
But  then  we  soon  grew  tired  of  this  and  longed  again 

to  roam 
Along  the  old  white  picket  fence  around  our  cabin  home. 

We  left  our  dear  old  cabin  home  because  life  was  so 

slow, 

And  went  to  the  horrid  city  and  started  in  for  show. 
Now  we  are  willing  to  go  back  and  never  more  to  roam, 
Leave  the  fashions  and  the  follies  for  the  city  folk  at 

home. 


174  RHYMES    FROM    THE    RAN  GEL  AND 


The  Horrors  of  a  Prison  Cell. 


Well,  Pard,  old  boy,  cold  cruel  fate 

Doth  often  seem  unkind. 
And  more  severe  to  those  who  leave 

Their  loved  ones  far  behind. 
A  term  of  years  in  prison  garb 

Means  anguish  and  despair, 
For  pain  and  sorrow,  strong  and  fierce, 

Is  sure  to  meet  you  there. 

Gaunt  Terror  meets  you  at  the  door 

With  all  its  hellish  glare ; 
The  iron  door  with  bars  of  steel 

Will  deal  you  out  your  share. 
'Tis  here  you  feel  the  galling  pain 

Of  sorrow's  bitter  tear; 
'Tis  here  the  time  is  slow  and  long — 

Each  day  seems  like  a  year. 

Man's  inhumanity  to  man 

Is  here  most  clearly  shown, 
And  here  the  prisoner  in  his  stripes 

Must  reap  what  he  has  sown. 
The  mills  of  all  the  Gods  grind  on 

With  a  slow  and  sad  lament, 
Until  they  grind  your  measured  share, 

And  then  they  seem  content. 

You  cannot  see  the  ones  you  love — 

You  can  but  see  the  wrong; 
While  you  can  see  and  that  quite  well, 

The  wall  is  high  and  strong. 
You  see  a  convict  in  his  stripes, 

A  picture  of  your  fate; 
For  prison  cells  can  only  bear 

The  fruit  of  shame  and  hate. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    I'ERSES  175 

I  know,  Old  Pard,  and  that  quite  well. 

And  you  do  know  the  same, 
That  every  stone  in  this  Corral 

Is  branded  well  with  shame. 
See  that  old  stone  box,  the  prison  cell, 

Is  barred  with  iron  and  steel, 
To  hide  the  prisoner  from  the  world, 

To  smother  all  he  feels. 

It's  here  you  may  forgotten  be 

By  wife  and  children  kind, 
Though  in  your  dreams  you  visit  them, 

The  ones  you  left  behind. 
It's  here  you  may  forgotten  be 

By  brother  and  by  friend, 
Unless  the  golden  cords  of  love 

Will  draw  them  to  that  end. 

Man's   rule  of  cruelty  to  man 

Has  caused  him  long  to  mourn ; 
It's  drove  him  to  a  prison  cell, 

For  which  he  was  not  born. 
And  here  within  the  prison  pen 

His  life  is  marred  and  blurred, 
'Midst  squeaking  doors  and  clanking  chains, 

He  must  not  say  a  word. 

I  know,  old  Pard,  that  you  dislike 

To  breathe  the  prison  air; 
It  seems  that  whether  good  or  bad 

You   get  the  buzzard  share. 
Here  hearts  growr  hard  and  passions  rage, 

That  witness  prison  shame, 
And  dark  will  be  the  blot  on  one 

Who  bears  a  convict's  name. 

They  come  to  this  great  school  of  crime 

From  Bethsheba  and  from  Dan : 
They  represent  with  one  accord 

Man's  cruelty  to  man. 


176  RHYMES    FROM    THE    RANGELAND 

Some  are  here  whose  time  is  life, 
And  some  whose  time  is  short, 

And  some  outside  are  on  the  road 
To  reach  the  same  resort. 

In  vain  may  you  expect  reform 

Where  teachers  slap  and  shove ; 
You  cannot  change  the  cruel  heart 

But  with  the  words  of  love. 
There's  nothing-  here  to  help  a  man 

Should  he  wish  to   reform ; 
Hate  and  revenge  both  mark  the  road 

That  leads  to  sad  forlorn. 

No  good  can  come  to  cruel  hearts 

That  hard  with  evil  pant, 
But  like  a  child  when  whipped  at  school 

Will  only  rave  and  rant. 
It  takes  the  tender  words  of  love 

To  thaw  the  ice-cold  heart. 
To  drive  from  it  revengeful  fire 

And  make  the  hate  depart. 

I  truly  sympathize  with  those 

Whose  home's  a  prison  pen 
For  I  have  seen  the  prison  chain 

That  binds  the  prison  men. 
Pride,  hate  and  envy  is  the  chain 

That  long  shall  hold  them  fast, 
Unless  the  love  of  Jesus  Christ 

Shall  find  a  place  at  last. 

I  point  you  now  to  Jesus  Christ, 
The  Lamb  for  sinners  slain ; 

Who  once  a  visit  made  to  earth 
And  soon  will  come  again. 

Oh !  come  to  this  great  glorious  King 
And  let  him  change  your  heart ; 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  177 

He'll  walk  with  you  and  live  with  you 
And  from  you  will  not  depart. 

We  met  in  prison  stripes,  old  Pard, 

I  knew  you  were  my  friend, 
And  may  we  still  continue  so 

Until  our  term  shall  end. 
And  when  you  leave  this  prison  pen 

I  shall  often  think  of  you, 
For  I  have  a  large  place  in  my  heart 

For  one  so  good  and  true. 

But  here  we  have  to  stay,  old  Pard, 

Till  freedom  swings  her  gate, 
For  we  are  convicts  still,  you  know. 

Resigned  unto  our  fate. 
And  if  we  ask  for  anything 

We  are  sure  to  be  refused, 
For  convicts  only  wear  the  stripes 

And  the  guards  they  wear  the  shoes. 

And  this  I  know7  full  well,  old  Pard, 

That   fearful   passions  burn, 
That  grow  and  flourish  every  day 

And  causes  no  concern. 
The  school  of  crime  here  flourish  well, 

Each  one  tries  to  betray; 
Oh!  what  a  long  great  roll  of  crime 

For  that  great  Judgment  Day. 

Swing  open  now,  ye  mighty  gate, 

And  set  this  prisoner  free; 
You've  done  so  much  for  him  today. 

Soon  do  the  same  for  me. 
And  when  we  meet  outside,  old  Pard, 

Along  the  path  of  fame, 
Fll  reach  to  you  my  hand  again— 

I  know  you'll  be  the  same. 


178  RHYMES    FROM    THE    RANGELAND 

Just  to  Be  a  Rancher's  Wife. 


When  the  rosebud  greets  the  lily 

And  the  lily  greets  the  dew, 
And  the  sunshine  and  the  shadow 

Have  the  shine  a-woven  through, 
And  your  heart  is  kind  and  tender, 

Beating  free  and  full  of  life, 
There's  a  happy  consolation 

Just  to  be  a  rancher's  wife. 

But  when  the  days  are  cloudy 

And  the  rain  begins  to  pour, 
And  the  frosty  stars  to  glitter 

And  the  winter  wind  to  roar. 
And  the  fearful  cold  has  reached  you, 

Keen  cutting  as  a  knife, 
There  is  little  consolation 

Just  to  be  a  rancher's  wife. 

When  Johnny  eats  green  apples 

And  you're  forty  miles  from  town, 
No  matter  what  the  hurry  is 

The  doctor  can't  be  found. 
When  the  baby  gets  the  colic, 

And  a-screaming  for  its  life, 
Oh,  how  awfully  disgusting 

To  be  a  rancher's  wife. 

When  the  wife  is  worn  and  weary 

With  four  kids  on  her  knees, 
And  the  bed  bugs  are  a-fighting 

In  the  kitchen  with  the  fleas. 
It  is  then  you  surely  sicken 

With  exasperating  strife, 
And  you  feel  it  is  disgusting 

To  be  a  rancher's  wife. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  179 

When  the  milk  is  strong  with  garlic 

And  the  butter  it  is  too, 
And  the  taste  has  got  the  flavor 

And  has  got  it  through  and  through; 
Now  your  appetite  has  left  you 

And  you're  almost  sick  of  life, 
You  know  it's  aggravating 

To  be  a  rancher's  wife. 

When  Tutie  has  the  measles, 

And  Katie  has  the  mumps, 
And  the  old  dog  Watch  is  threatened 

With  a  fearful  case  of  thrumps; 
When  green  apple  Johnny's  crying 

'Cause  he's  got  the  stomach  ache, 
And  his  mother  wet  and  chilly 

'Cause  she  fell  into  the  lake. 

When  the  chickens  they  won't  cackle, 

And  the  roosters  they  won't  crow, 
And  the  snow   is  still  a-falling 

In  a  way  that  isn't  slow, 
Don't  you  kno\v  that  you  can't  cut  it 

With  that  rusty-bladed  knife, 
For  your  little  strength  has  vanished 

Working  as  a  rancher's  wife. 

But   when   everything  is  lovely 

And  the  goose  is  flying  high, 
And  a  thousand  little  blessings 

Along  your  pathway  lie; 
When  the  children  are  a  romping 

And  crowing  full  of  life, 
It  is  perfectly  delightful 

To  be  a  rancher's  wife. 


180  RHYMES    FROM    THE    RANGELAND 

Far  From  My  Happy  Home. 

(Song.) 


I've  wandered  far  from  thee,  dear  wife, 

Far  from  my  happy  home; 
I've  left  the  land  that  gave  me  birth 

In  other  climes  to  roam. 
But  time  since  then  has  rolled  its  years 

And  marked  them  on  my  brow, 
Yet  I  do  often  think  of  thee, 

I'm  thinking  of  thee  now. 

I'm  thinking  of  the  day,  dear  wife, 

When  you  stood  by  my  side, 
And  watched  the  dawning  of  my  youth 

And  kissed  me  in  your  pride. 
Your  girlhood  love  was  then  lit  up 

With  hopes  of  future  joy, 
Which  your  bright  fancy  wove  for  you 

To  deck  your  husband  boy. 

I'm  far  away  from  thee,  dear  wife, 

No  friends  are  near  me  now, 
To  guide  me  with  a  tender  hand 

Or  ease  my  troubled  brow. 
The  follies  of  this  wicked  world 

Have  left  their  marks  on  me, 
And  wandering  on  enchanted  ground 

Find  none  to  love  like  thee. 

I'm  lonely  and  forsakened  now, 

Unpitied  and  unblest. 
Yet  still  I  would  not  have  you  know 

How  sorely  I'm  distressed. 
I  know  you  love  me  yet,  dear  wife, 

And  will  not  give  me  blame ; 
Come  soothe  me  with  your  loving  words 

And  bid  me  hope  again. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  181 

But  I  would  have  you  know,  dear  wife, 

That  brightest  hopes  decay; 
The  tempter  with  his  baleful  cup 

Has  dashed  them  all  away. 
While  shame  has  left  its  venom  sting 

To  rack  with  anguish  wild, 
Yet  still  I  think  of  thee,  dear  wife, 

Of  mother,  home  and  child. 

You  knew,  dear  wife,  that  I  was  born 

With  passions  wild  and  strong, 
And  listening  to  their  witching  voice 

Has  often  led  me  wrong. 
But  as  often  as  I  go,  dear  wife, 

In  error's  pleasing  track, 
There  comes  a  soft  and  gentle  voice 

That  always  calls  me  back. 

Our  youthful  days  are  gone,  dear  \vife, 

We've  felt  their  many  cares, 
But  always  found  some  loving  hearts 

Some  wheat  among  the  tares. 
Dear  wife,  could  you  but  feel  my  pain 

While  penning  these  few  lines, 
The  depth  of  feeling  in  your  heart 

Would  change  to  grow   more   kind. 

Oft  in  the  dreams  of  night,  dear  wife, 

Your  cherished   face  I  see, 
Amid  the  old  familiar  scenes 

Where  once  we  used  to  be. 
And  as  oft  as  I  look  back,  dear  wife, 

Along  the  waste  of  years, 
My  heart  fills  up  with  sudden  pain, 

My  eyes  fill  up  with  tears. 

Yet  still  I  look  to  thee,  dear  wife. 

No  other  can   I  know, 
To  help  me  o'er  life's  thorny  path 

Where  wintry  winds  do  blow. 


182  RHYMES    FROM    THE    RANGELAND 

I've  seen  yon  sultry  summer  sun 

For  many  times  return, 
And  every  time  it  proves  to  me 

There's  many  hearts  that  yearn. 

We  wandered  o'er  the  world,  dear  wife, 

On  nature's  trackless  path, 
We've  romped  with  children  in  their  play, 

And  joined  them  in  their  laugh. 
We've  helped  them  pluck  the  little  flowers 

That  deck  the  early  spring, 
And  walked  with  them  in  twilight  hours 

While  mocking  birds  would  sing. 

But  now  the  sun  of  time,  dear  wife, 

Shines  on  the  western  hills, 
We  soon  shall  hear  the  sunset  gun 

And  death's  demand   fulfill. 
Then  may  our  souls  in  silent  peace 

Resign  life's  joyless  day, 
Our  troubled  hearts  their  throbbing  cease, 

Cold  mouldering  in  the  clay. 

Quite  rough  has  been  the  road,  dear  wife, 

Since  last  I  saw  your  face, 
But  what  a  joyful  thought,  dear  one, 

My  journey  to  retrace. 
The  God  of  love  may  guide  us  yet — 

Long  years  before  we  part — 
When  peace  and  righteousness  have  kissed 

To  bind  the  broken  heart. 

It  is  with  tender  love,  dear  wife, 

These  lines  to  you  I  send, 
And  as  you  read  and  ponder  them 

Esteem  them  more  than  friend. 
Beneath  life's  evening  setting  sun 

I   dedicate  this  page, 
To  thee,  thou  lover  of  my  youth, 

And  my  delight  in  age. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  183 

It's  very  hard  to  write,  dear  wife, 

When  the  wings  of  hope  are  clipped; 
How  hard  it's  been  to  drink  the  dregs 

That  my  own  lips  have  sipped. 
But,  farewell,  dear  wife,  be  good,  old  girl; 

May  the  world  to  you  be  kind, 
And  send  one  hopeful,  cheerful  word 

To  the  one  you  left  behind. 


To  the  Cranky  Freight  Agent. 

Alturas,  Cal.,   1911. 


I  thank  you  for  your  photograph, 

Which  seems  to  be  quite  good — 
The  very  image  of  yourself 

When  you  before  me  stood 
And  spoke  insulting  cranky  words 

That  could  but  leave  their  sting, 
A  recompense  of  no  reward 

To  prophet,  priest  or  king. 
But.  why  send  me  your  photograph? 

Why  should  you  make  the  show? 
Why  not  send  it  to  the  round-house 

Of  the  little  N.  C.  O.  ? 

Now,  it  surely  is  amusing, 

I  am  willing  to  admit, 
To  have  a  one-horse  railroad 

And  a  crank  a-running  it ; 
And  to  have  a  bonehead  agent 

Stand  up  and  call  you  down, 
Because  you  asked  about  the  rates 

To  some  measlev  little  town. 


184  RHYMES    FROM    THE    RAN  GEL  AND 

It  sets  a  person  thinking 
What  a  person  ought  to  do 

To  such  a  cranky  agent 

When  he  gets  in  such  a  stew. 

Three  cheers    for  the  stage  line, 

And  a  nickel  for  the  show, 
That  little  one-horse  railroad 

They  call  the  N.  C.  O. 
They    fire    up   the   little   engine 

And  then  she  steams  away, 
To  get  stuck  in  a  little  snowdrift. 

And  there  she  has  to  stay. 
So  they  drag  out  Mr.  Holigan 

From  the  little  drift  of  snow, 
And  wheel  him  to  the  round-house 

Of  the  little  N.  C.  O. 

Now,   good-bye,  Mr.   Agent, 

To  forgive  you  sure  I'll  try, 
But  it  takes  a  quart  of  vinegar 

To  catch  one  little  fly. 
But  if  you  have  done  caught  him. 

Pray  don't  you  let  him  go, 
But  send  him  to  the  round-house 

Of  the  little  N.  C.  O. 
I  have  met  some  cranky  agents, 

But  none  to  serve  me  so, 
As  the  cranky  little  agent 

Of  the  little  N.  C.  O. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  185 


Farewell  to  My  Saddle  and  Rope. 

I  will  now  quit  the  range  of  the  cattle 

To  ride  through  the  garden  of  love, 
For  Jesus  to  me  has  just  whispered 

Of  a  wonderful  mansion  above. 
So  farewell  to  the  wild  pitching  broncho, 

Farewell  to  my  saddle  and  rope, 
For  I've  heard  of  a  range  that  is  better 

And  my  heart  is  filled  with  its  hope. 

Farewell  to  the  merry  old  roundup, 

Where  all  the  wild  punchers  would  meet 
With  angoras,  sombreros  and  stetsons 

And  bright  shining  spurs  on  their  feet. 
Farewell  to  the  barbed  wire  fences, 

Farewell   to   the   cattle  within, 
Farewell  to  all  my  companions. 

Who  feed  on  the  ranges  of  sin. 

I  am  tired  of  seeing  good  riders 

Ride  close  to  the  whirlpool  of  hell. 
When  I'm  trying  so  hard  to  turn  them 

Back  home  to  the  old  corral. 
Farewell  to  the  old  chuck  wagon. 

Farewell  to  the  boss  and  his  soap, 
For  I've  heard  of  a  range  that  is  better 

And  my  heart  is  filled  with  its  hope. 

Farewell  to  her  grassy  old  rangeland, 

With  her  water  so  cold  and  so  clear; 
Farewell  to  her  rocky-ribbed  mountains, 

Where  her  peaks  so  majestically  rear. 
Farewell  to  her  flower-decked  gardens 

That  fills  with  a  joy  and  a  hope. 
Where  a  cowboy  has  room  too,  and  plenty, 

To  gracefully  circle  his  rope. 


186  RHYMES    FROM    THE    RANGELAND 

Farewell  to  her  dreary  old  badlands, 

Farewell  to  her  mountains  and  hills, 
Farewell  to  her  lakes  and  her  marshes, 

Farewell  to  her  rivers  and  rills. 
Farewell  to  her  sage  and  her  cactus, 

Farewell  to  all  this  wide  scope, 
For  I've  heard  of  a  range  that  is  better 

And  my  heart  is  filled  with  hope. 

Farewell  to  the  old  bucking  cayuse, 

Who's  as  onery  as  ginger  and  snuff, 
Who  is  springy  and  twisty  and  nervy, 

And  knows  how  to  deal  you  the  stuff. 
Yes,  farewell,  Mr.  Outlaw,  I  quit  yon, 

Here  I  pull  off  my  saddle  and  rope, 
For  I've  heard  of  a  range  that  is  better 

And  my  heart  is  filled  with  its  hope. 

I  am  tired  of  the  western  roundups 

We  have  on  the  ranges  of  sin, 
Through  the  storm,  the  blizzard  and  sunshine, 

Cold,  hungry  and  wet  to  the  skin. 
So  I'll  now  quit  the  range  of  the  cattle 

To  ride  in  the  garden  of  love ; 
It's  as  dear  to  my  soul  as  the  circling  blue 

That  arches  the  world  above. 

Farewell  to  the  wild  western  outlaw. 

Who  always  goes  crooked  and  high  ; 
No  use  for  side-stepping  and  twisting. 

And  it's  little  I  care  for  your  shy. 
So  I'll  pull  off  my  saddle  and  blanket, 

Throw  down  my  six-shooter  and  rope, 
For  I've  heard  of  a  range  that  is  better 

And  my  heart  is  filled  with  its  hope. 

Farewell,  all  you  wild,  jolly  punchers. 
Who  circle  around  the  biV  herd ; 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  187 

I  hold  up  to  you  a  great  Saviour, 

And  point  you  to  God  and  His  Word. 

And  you,  boys,  who  are  out  hunting  mavericks, 
You  had  better  turn  round  and  go  back, 

For  I've  seen  across  the  sad  valley 
Where  sorrow  has  made  her  big  track. 

So  I  warn  you,  my  gay,  jolly  fellows, 

As  I  give  you  my  last  parting  hand, 
To  turn  from  the  trail  of  the  maverick 

And  put  on  the  upper  range  brand. 
Get  your  soul  well  filled  at  the  fountain 

And  your  feet  with  Salvation  well  shod, 
And  be  a  bright  light  at  the  roundup 

As  you  ride  on  God's  green  grassy  sod. 

Farewell  to  the  wilds  of  Montana, 

Farewell  to  the  gem  of  the  West, 
For  I  guess  I'm  in  time  with  her  motion, 

And  her  charms  have  set  deep  in  my  breast. 
But  farewell  to  her  plains  and  her  mountains 

And  farewell  to  my  saddle  and  rope, 
For  I've  heard  of  a  range  that  is  better 

And  my  heart  is  filled  with  its  hope. 

Farewell  to  her  clear  brimming  rivers, 

And  her  valleys  where  the  punchers  would  stand 
Encircled  around  the  wild  critters 

To  locate  and  read  every  brand. 
But  I'm  through  with  the  saddle  and  blanket, 

And  through  with  six-shooter  and  rope, 
For  I've  heard  of  a  range  that  is  better 

And  my  heart  is  filled  with  its  hope. 

So  I  leave  you,  brave  fellows,  God  bless  you, 
Remember  the  words  I  have  spoke, 

And  turn  from  your  sins  to  your  Saviour — 
Come  quickly,  step  under  the  yoke. 


188  RHYMES    FROM    THE    RAN  GEL  AND 

For  I  now  quit  the  range  of  the  cattle 
To  ride  in  the  garden  of  love, 

For  God  in  His  Word  has  just  spoken 
Of  a  wonderful  mansion  above. 

Come  now,  heed  the  words  of  the  Saviour, 

Come  ride  in  the  pasture  of  love, 
Come  with  me  to  a  range  that  is  better 

And  a  mansion  prepared  up  above. 
So  farewell  to  all  the  cow-punchers, 

Here  I  pull  off  my  saddle  and  rope. 
And  throw  off  my  trusty  six-shooter 

As  I  drift  to  this  land  of  my  hope. 


The  Morning  Glory  Hills. 

/.$•  a  name  applied  by  me  to  the  Upper  Stillwater 
country  from  the  Red  Bridge  to  its  source.  Here  you 
can  see  the  grandest  of  all  scenery,  the  most  inviting  and 
the  most  inspiring.  Here  you  can  see  battlements  and 
domes  and  thrones  decorated  with  nature's  beautiful 
garments.  Around  them  twines  a  mantle  of  leaves  of 
many  colors — tawny  and  brown,  silvery  and  golden,  the 
blue  and  the  grey — all  are  here.  Here  you  can  see  the 
rain  and  the  rainbow,  the  flowers  in  their  bloom,  and 
the  frost  king  in  his  frozen  form;  the  mountains  in  all 
their  vastness  and  their  greatness. 

There's  a  thousand  gems  of  beauty 

In  this  land  we  call  our  own. 
So  just  chum  awhile  with  nature — 

Take  a  trip  and  be  alone. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  189 

Go  up  the  far-famed  Yellowstone, 

Or  the  Stillwater  valley  stream, 
And  you'll  feel  that  you  are  treading 

Where  the  mountain  crystals  gleam ; 
When  a  beauty  from  the  mountains 

Over  all  the  landscape  spills, 
And  the  sun  shines  in  her  splendor 

On  the  Morning  Glory  hills. 

Yes,  a  thousand  gems  of  beauty 

Lie  sparkling  by  your  side, 
When  the  autumn  leaves  are    falling 

In  their  crimson  colors  dyed. 
Here  you'll  see  the  brilliant  rainbow 

Gleaming  out  above  the  storm, 
And  the  frosty  king  of  winter 

Sitting  in  his  frozen  form; 
And  here"  a  mystic  beauty 

Over  all  the  landscape  spills, 
When  the  sun  shines  in  her  splendor 

On  the  Morning  Glory  hills. 

From  the  rough  and  rugged  mountains 

Now  a  golden  chain  is  spun, 
To  the  highest  peaks  that  glisten 

From  the  bright  uprising  sun. 
And,  Oh!  those  mighty  mountains, 

With  their  faces  glowing  bright, 
And  their  foreheads  turned  to  heaven 

And  their  lock  so  snowy  white. 
Here  they  stand  serene,  majestic, 

When  the  sun  begins  to  spill 
Her  rosy  blushing  blushes 

On  the  Morning  Glory  Hills. 

Take  a  trip  to  old  Montana, 

And  see  the  sweep  and  swing; 
Where  the  people  are  true  as  metal, 

And  the  metal  has  the  ring; 


190  RHYMES    FROM    THE    RANGELAND 

Where  the  stars  at  night  are  glistening 

From  the  dome  of  heaven's  blue; 
Where  you  can  chum  with  nature 

And  take  her  medicine,  too. 
Where  you  can  see  the  sunrise 

Get  ready  just  to  spill, 
Her  rosy  blushing  blushes 

On  the  Morning  Glory  hills. 

Go  up  the  far-famed  Yellowstone — 

A  wonderland  you'll  find; 
And  up  the  Stillwater  valley 

Is  another  not  far  behind. 
Here  you  can  trace  by  the  light  of  day 

The  freaks  of  a  Master  hand, 
And  you  can  see  by  the  starlit  sky 

He  still  is  in  command — 
When  a  splash  of  mystic  beauty 

Over  all  the  landscape  spills, 
And  the  sun  shines  in  her  splendor 

On  the  Morning  Glory  hills. 


A    BOOK    OF    WESTERN    VERSES  191 


To  the  Public. 


I  wish  to  say  that  I  have  three  quite  large  books 
ready  for  publication :  "Rhymes  From  the  Rangeland 
Under  the  Sunny  Blue  Skies  of  the  Western  Plains, 
Mountains  and  Foothills,"  etc. ;  "Away  Out  West  Be 
hind  the  Bars,  Or  the  Shadows  of  the  Great  Stone 
Corral  at  Deer  Lodge,  Mont."  (in  two  volumes),  each 
one  complete  in  itself. 

I  tried  to  find  a  publisher  in  the  West  who  worked 
on  a  royalty  basis,  but  could  find  none,  so  I  concluded 
to  .get  out  a  small,  cheap  edition,  without  many  illustra 
tions,  until  I  could  do  better. 

You  will  notice  that  I  have  been  up  against  the  real 
thing.  I  was  sent  to  the  penitentiary  for  five  years, 
charged  with  killing  a  steer. 

During  that  time  my  wife  got  a  divorce  from  me, 
gathered  up  the  stuff  and,  like  the  Prodigal  Son,  went 
into  a  far  country.  I  have  never  seen  her  since  I  have 
been  released  from  prison  or  any  of  the  children.  I 
traveled  through  Idaho,  Utah,  Nevada,  California  and 
Oregon,  with  the  hope  of  finding  her  and  being  with 
her,  but  to  no  avail.  I  did  not  succeed,  so  I  returned 
again  to  Montana.  But  somewhere  toward  the  sun- 
kissed  hills  of  the  Pacific  slope  roams  the  wife  that  I 
loved  so  well. 

I  hope  to  get  my  other  books  out  as  soon  as  I  can, 
and  trust  you  may  read  them  and  be  benefited  by  them. 
In  them  I  have  told  you  what  prison  life  is  as  I  found 
it  at  Deer  Lodge,  Mont.,  within  that  great  stone  corral. 
I  tell  you  of  the  divorce  evil  and  what  it  did  to  me ;  how 
I  hate  the  cruel  monster,  etc.  You  will  find  these  books 
interesting  and  instructive  from  start  to  finish.  Tn 
prose  and  poetry. 

Yours  very  sincerely, 

THE  AUTHOR. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-17m-8,'55  (B3339s4)444 


PS 


3503       Rhymes  from  the 
ran  Re  land 


m  iiniiui  III ||  inn  Illll  Hill  IJIII  IJJIf  |||j  J| 


